Today’s prompt comes from Rob Halpin.
Here’s Rob’s prompt: Write a veteran poem, but instead of just a poem on what Veteran’s Day is about or thanking veterans, write from the veteran’s perspective: how they felt moving around the world, what it was like being deployed to a combat zone, what they thought of the support (or lack thereof), or what they’ve found since getting back or out of the service.
Here’s Robert’s attempt at a Veteran Poem:
“Back Home”
Everything is the same
in some ways, but nothing
is the same as I left it.
This girl who nurses me now
used to get in jealous fights
over me. My son couldn’t say
my name but now holds the door
open for me. Calls me, “Sir,”
and I just to tell him I made
the right choice as I teach
him to pass ball in the yard,
but I can’t find the words.
*****
Thank you, Rob, for today’s prompt. Click here to learn more about Rob.
If you prefer using the WD Forum, click here for the Day 11 thread.
*****
Follow me on Twitter @robertleebrewer
*****
…with the Novelist’s Boot Camp, written by former West Point English instructor Todd A. Stone. This guide to novel writing breaks the process down into commonsense pieces that will have you starting and finishing your book in no time at all.
Day 11
Prompt: Veteran’s viewpoint
Anzio was a tough battle.
My neighbor’s dad was captured there by Germans.
He was a POW 18 months.
I was lucky. My unit came out unscathed, and while in Europe, I managed to see a
bit of a different world.
What we did wasn’t heroic.
We did our duty, fought to protect freedom, country, family.
I sit in the dark den with the TV on and recall the war and think of my wife,
gone these three years, taken by Alzheimer’s.
God spared me in the war, spared me through by-pass surgery,
but I miss my wife.
Still, I can walk the neighborhood in my 80′s, drive my pickup, and mow my own
lawn.
Life is good,
and God’s been good to me.
Don’t look away.
Don’t look away
Only to tell me
No jobs today.
Today I left military behind.
Looking ahead
Only to find closed eyes
Only to find closed doors.
Keep faith.
America
We served,
Again and again,
Yet you still look away.
A Veteran’s Request
It warms my old heart
A bit
To know that you’re
Grateful,
And that you bought
A poppy
For once this year,
But I think
Perhaps I’d rather
Just
Have you talk to me.
Africa in WWII
The whole time I was in Africa
I had a migraine. After two weeks
the doctor said to drink gallons
of coffee. It helped.
One night the Arabs drifted through
camp to see what we had. I kept
my eyes slit because we were told
if they drew their saber they couldn’t
replace it until they drew blood. They
left as quietly as they came—ghosts
into the night.
“You’re a stemaing pile of
shit!”
That’s what he told me one day.
I can’t blame him,
he’s the product of shit himself,
at least that what he wanted us to believe.
This man,
this single tower of a man,
never left the base.
He told us his story
when he was there in the white linen,
his body a garden,
while the sun slowly and eventually
kissed below the horizon
and left for good.
He spent the first part of his life
a missionary,
abroad on some sinking ship
aboard some stringy desitny.
He said he met a girl in every port.
He never said more than that.
He was there,
in the thick of it all,
when the bombs began dropping.
He was there
when the bodies of his brothers
were scattered like
bird seed.
He said
he would never go back again.
But, he did.
He did again, and again, and again,
as if he had something to prove.
He got too old to carry his burden by himself,
so they tied him up to the
147th,
shackled and noosed.
But, it was a death he wanted.
It was a death full of glory.
It was a death worthy of a man
who gave himself
so others could
pick up a spoon and watch TV and
never worry about whether or not their
simple little lives
would wind up in the back room of some subterranian
lair.
He is to thank for this.
So, I take it.
I take it while he yells at me because
I need something to kick my ass.
Forsaken
Not so different from the fox hole,
this cardboard hut beneath the overpass;
But the sound of traffic overhead is soothing
compared to the bombs that still echo
in my dreams.
A man comes by once a week
with his bible and some prayers,
and once he brought a blanket
and a hot thermos of soup.
I accepted his prayers
and the blanket served
my cat and me well
on cold nights
when my feet went numb.
Numbness was preferred to the blisters
I had from hours of trudging
through snake filled swamps in ‘Nam.
And the soup runs warm
down my throat, but
doesn’t warm my belly
quite like Mad Dog
or Wild Turkey.
Those verses he recites
just run around in my head–
He tells me Jesus is my friend,
but Jesus wasn’t the friend
I held bloody in my arms
with his chest laid wide open
muttering for his mama
til his lips went still.
Still.
That man keeps comin’ back
once a week like clockwork;
Once I ask him to bring
a pack a smokes and he does.
He asks if I have family
and I open up the shoebox
full of yellowed snapshots–
My mama and daddy long gone
and my Melanie and the baby.
“Where are your wife and child?”
he asks me;
I tell him I don’t know anymore;
I tell him I haven’t ever opened my
box for anyone but him,
and my whole body starts to shake.
The man puts his arm around my shoulder
and tells me about the time Jesus
felt forsaken by his own Father;
“Son”, he says,” this country has forsaken you,”
Then the man starts to cry
and tells me he’s sorry.
I tell him it’s ok
me ‘n Dave, my cat,
(I named him after my dead buddy),
are doin’ just fine and I light up a smoke;
The man asks for one too
and I say sure;
Then the two of us sit under
the overpass smoking,
the soothing sound of traffic overhead.
what we gained
what we lost
red poppies
nice, Cara!
Thanks, Terri.
HEAR MY VOICE
(c) 2012 – G. Smith
—————-
I shipped out at eighteen,
To some place far away,
Greeted in a foreign land,
On a day much like today,
By unending hours of boredom,
Unending seconds of fear,
Unending bonds of friendship,
And that’s what brought me here.
I’m a veteran, not a victim;
It wasn’t chance, it was my choice
I’m a veteran, not a victim,
Ignore my medals, hear my voice.
I stayed on at twenty-four,
With new stripes on my sleeve;
Spent a little time at home,
Before I had to leave.
Back again to where I’d been,
You do what you do best,
Some R-and-R now and again,
To get a little rest.
I’m a veteran, not a victim,
It wasn’t chance, it was my choice.
I’m a veteran, not a victim;
Ignore my medals, hear my voice.
I’m proud of the service I’ve given;
It’s been a good life and more than a living.
I’m a veteran, not a victim;
It wasn’t chance, it was my choice.
I’m a veteran, not a victim;
Ignore my medals, hear my voice.
Ignore the scars.
Hear my voice.
Violet
The only good thing about war is your letters. In them, I taste the kumquats we fell in love
with on our trip to Japan. I feel your scarf tease my face with its elusive forefingers when we
drove to Tin Mountain and hiked up, up,up. I can even let us in the double wooden doors
of our church most Sunday mornings when light of day hits you between the eyes.
I forget about death and dying.
Sorry I’m not more cheerful.
Write me and I promise to stay alive to read and respond.
Yours,
Mat
Veteran’s of Foreign Wars
Cast upon the shores of lands far from home,
you grasped at the slightest reminder of those
you left behind. Sometimes, comfort came in
split second moments – a smile, some food shared,
a song, a bit of cloth – it didn’t take much
to remind you of why you were doing a job
few would choose to do so far from those who cherished you.
Today, as we remember you and all those who served,
I give up a prayer of thanks for those in foreign lands
that gave from the little they had, that reached out a hand,
hummed a melody, or offered a place to rest.
Because of them, home was never too far from your thoughts -
Because of them, you came back to those you loved with
stories to tell and a melancholy twinkle in your eyes.
About Alex
They never knew what to do with the boy.
They hassled him about his grades, indulged
his paintball fantasies, talked the principal
into giving him another chance after the
smoking incident. Once he graduated, no
college would have him, and he managed
to derail every job interview they sent him
to. “Really,” his father asked, “how could you
fail to get hired at Subway?”
So that’s what it was coming to – the Army
or jail, when he eventually got caught with
too much weed on him. The military, they said,
would give him the discipline he needed. The
recruiter assured them that he would come out
with self-respect and valuable job skills. He
signed, because what else was there to do?
It was such a relief to be military parents. They
worried, from afar, through basic training, proudly
attending when he completed it. When he was
sent to Afghanistan, they got their friends to send
care packages with supplies for the local children.
He would come home on leave, quiet, but not in
the sullen way he used to be. They took him out
to breakfast, invited his friends over for a party.
This was all going to work out.
Now he’s been discharged, and nobody knows
what he should do, least of all Alex. He hasn’t
found work, because employers can’t quite
understand what he is qualified for, and they
have this niggling doubt that he will lose his
temper and pull a gun at the jobsite. Maybe
it has something to do with the way he carries
himself, just a little distant, as though he were
somehow better than everyone else. At home,
he’s frustrated, saying that he can do any job,
they just have to tell him exactly what is expected.
In the Service
So much tougher
than ever I dreamed enlisting;
signing up (a child)
I never imagined
the hardest part:
all I left behind
Poetic Asides November Challenge – Day 11
Write a veteran’s poem from their perspective
Leaving (shadorma)
We were finally
going home.
My buddies
asked for phone number, address.
`No, the war’s over,’
I said, `I don’t want
to ever
look backward’.
Mom never knew where I was,
Korea, she thought.
While flying back home,
aware of
country’s mood,
I changed out of uniform
to avoid their scorn.
Marital Battlegrounds
I never thought I’d feel comfortable in a combat zone. That’s strange.
More so than at home anyway.
At least here, I don’t have to fight with her.
Handling Insurgents is not so bad. This I can actually cope with.
Just thinking of it, I wonder when I’ll be deployed back home
to see her, on the real battlegrounds.
Soldier mom
What country would do that?
Must be guerrilla warfare,
mother’s throwing themselves
in front of the enemy
to protect
their children.
Mother’s shouldn’t be soldiers
every instinct in me
swears –
2 and 4 year olds
left at the airport
in hesitant
grandparent arms -
the National
Guard
for 1 weekend a month,
money for school,
protect your country
from invading forces
and natural disasters,
political disasters
a fine line in the
clause
distinction.
It’s poor country and urban kids
needing a little extra help
getting to serve
their country,
mothers and fathers
both called up
at the same time
and shipped to Iraq,
Afghanistan
and we all must learn
to do our duty,
sacrifices must be made,
even grandma’s
much too old
to raise their daughter’s
toddlers.
Veteran
Somehow, it doesn’t seem to matter
that I have this amassed collection
of ribbon shreds and polished medals
—no one defines me by what I
accomplished with the Corps. No one
asks to see me wearing my dress
blues these days; I wouldn’t be able
to fasten anything, anyway, and no
one offers to help anymore. I can’t
always remember what to do with
simple things—fork, pencil, comb,
all resting in my hand, waiting for me
to get my act together and eat or
write or make myself presentable, as
best I can, which isn’t wonderful,
these days. They call me a wounded
warrior, and that alone is what
distinguishes me from everyone else,
all the whole people, these days.
All these have made this Remembrance Day extra special…. I am pondering on this day and what it means like never before too.
Mine can be found HERE
Wow. This has been quite a day of stories and life. it’s made me feel Veteran’s Day like i never have before. Thank you all.
*I had this conversation with a vet some 22 years ago.
The Iraqui army
was like a high school football team
playing the Pittsburgh Steelers
with mean Joe Greene,
know what I mean?
Finally Home
By: Meena Rose
Most of me made it;
My legs were not so lucky
And neither was my right eye -
Still I am returning home.
I take in a deep ragged breath;
What will they think of their
Golden son reduced to being a
Ghoulish sight.
As I wheel myself out, my
Breath catches as Mom
Lets out a whimper fighting
Hard not to let her face
Crumble and Dad standing so
Still, a lone tear slides
Down his cheek as he wraps
His arms around Mom lending
Her his strength. Chelsea,
She took off in tears;
I wonder if she’ll ever come
Back. I am not sure I would
If it were me. I choke down
My sob and watch them; who else
Will turn their back on me?
The dreariness is broken
As Charlie explodes on the
Scene screaming “Welcome Home!”
As he leaped into my lap. I
Held on to that little rascal
Taking in the sight of his
Sun kissed skin and finger nails
That had just played in the dirt;
He looked at me and those bright
Blue eyes clouded with concern
“Uncle Scott, is my Papa coming
Home too?” I ruffled his hair
And looked away for who was I
To tell him “No Charlie, your
Papa fought hard and died a
Brave brave man while he was
Busy saving me.”
Coming Home from ‘Nam
(for Glen)
Over there we were boys playing men,
trying not to lose ourselves before
we ever found ourselves, shipped out
to this land of jungles, mountains,
choppers to a Rolling Stones soundtrack
instead of Glenn Miller, “Over There.”
With no control over going home alive
or broken to pieces, I focused inward,
trying not to get lost in the purple haze
or agent orange. Living for mail call,
I must admit I laughed—a bitter laugh,
sure—when I read what she wrote:
I think we need to see other people.
What other people? Everywhere, I saw
people—the enemies and allies all looked
alike to me; these buddies I depended on,
who daily trusted me with their lives
would forget me the minute I shipped
home—dead or alive. I waited her out.
And when my time came, I sent word
when I’ve be arriving stateside, praying
she’d be in the backseat of Daddy’s car,
letting Mama sit up front. But nobody
met me when I walked off the plane,
and a collect call confirm the mix-up—
the time change, Daddy kept repeating
into the phone, Mama wailing behind him.
So I sat there on a bench outside the airport,
duffle bag at my feet, staring at the clock,
too far past self-pity to play that game,
making bets when they’d arrive and if
she’d be there with them. And she was.
Reader, I married her.
THEY COME HERE*
They come here, can you believe it
After all the bad feeling, all the lies
It seems many of us didn’t die for nothing
And that artist or architect, I forget who
Just now – they made fun of her for this
A long uninterrupted wall of names –
Said nobody would be bothered coming
To look at this, would walk all the way in
Then hunt through all the names just to find
Their loved one’s or friend’s or whomever
But the naysayers hadn’t counted
On the determination of the surviving vets
And some of those families walking so long
In a darkness hard to fathom; they come here
And today, my daughter brought my grandchildren
And the guides helped her find my name and
They came to where it is pretty easily reached
And they all spent a long time running their hands
And fingers back and forth over the letters of my name
I cannot explain the thrill of being touched like that
Even in death, to be read as if blind and they,
Knowing Braille, were deciphering so much
Of what happened just by doing that one thing
For a wall that caused so much controversy
Just by its shape, size, and location, when first it was being
Planned, it thrills me no end that it has been
Adopted as more of a shrine than anything else
Yessir, right after it opened, a vet from California
Saw it as a place of healing and wanted to make
It accessible for vets and families right across
The country, so he created “a moving wall”
A transportable version of the wall so it could be taken
To vets that couldn’t come to the permanent
Installation – so many good things have grown
Out of this wall – it’s sometimes hard to remember
The really bad times that went along with that war
And I am truly grateful for that …
For more information about the Vietnam Veterans Memorial and other memorials that have evolved because of this one, here is a link:
*http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Vietnam_Veterans_Memorial
Daddys Gone
She walked up to him brushed her hand along his arm
leaned over and whispered in his ear
your the one for me dear
I want you to stay close
I want you to stay near
He gave her a loving stare back
he told her that every little thing she does
Makes his world exciting and new
As she flicked her hair across her neck
She couldnt take her eyes off of him
There was the love of her life stairing at her with a smile a silly grin
As silence broke the moment as if caught up in time
He knew someday he would marry her
And all in life would be fine
This moment they didnt take for granted
They made the most of what they had
Before he was to go and fight for his country
Her freedom and that of the unborn childs dad
Little did they know of this
only time would tell of this tale
When he was at war
she was gone to far
The child would be born before then
As she sent off letters to him to tell him of his child
a telegram came to silence her
The news was bad inside
She held her baby near and whispered in his ear
Your daddys gone been killed by a bomb
What will we do now
Oh what can be done
Dear baby you are your daddys son
A picture was all she had left
She pinned it to the babies cot
As tears trickled down her face
She remembered their first dating place
As she walked up to him brushed her hand along his arm
As he leaned over and whispered in his ear
His words to her your the one for me dear
I want you to stay close
I want you to stay near
“Discharge”
Sitting in the back of a Greyhound bus,
you find out who you are without orders.
Without family meeting you there to fuss,
you get dismissed last. At oh dark thirty
you might sleep, but you can’t, and there’ no rush.
Two hundred miles to Brookings, forty more
to Cairn Station, and then you walk a mile
to the house and whoever you find there,
strapped for cash, fast asleep and unable
to meet you, hug you, tell you where to toss
your reeking, desert-dusted duffel bag.
You’ll drive to Mcdonalds and then you’ll give
the orders: Big Mac, Coke, side of Kabul.
You’ve choppered, jeeped, flown, bussed, walked and driven
for two all-beef patties in the free world,
and in the world, water-tight as a sieve.
gonna have to figure out how to live.
OMG! This is amazing.
So glad you enjoy
Hero’s Perspective
My pain seeps
as sap from the tree,
If only my limbs
were there to see;
My heart aches
for that hole in the hill,
Much of me
lies there still;
Darkness never fades
or gives me rest,
Eyes wide open
sight fails its test;
Unable to reach this tear
weeping to fall,
What I have given
feels too small;
God grant me one wish
if given the chance,
Return me to my brothers
to carry again, freedom’s lance.
….veterans view,
A soldier’s answer to his mate…
Yep, that’s my baby.
Just a month old there.
Suzy’s six months now,
She’s our first.
For years we laughingly told others
“We’re having fun just practicing”
Actually, things were just not…….
Everyone was excited when we
announced we were having a baby.
Went shopping, fixed a room,
Debated girl’s and boy’s names.
We just never expected that
I would be called up, shipped out.
Not be there when she was born.
In the Dark
He was a Marine
flight mechanic on an
aircraft carrier in WWII.
I had a photo of him
with his dad (in the seabees)
and his uncle (in the army)
sharing the day together
on Guam.
Other than that
I could only imagine
the horror of
his job.
The planes land,
shot up, full of
the carnage of
his buddies, as he readies
the planes to
go out again.
After ground was broken
for the WWII
memorial he
told me one broken
story.
He said that you
had to walk clear
of the propeller even
when the engine
was off—sometimes
a burst of energy
would make the
prop jump and give
a little spin. He once
saw a man who
walked too close,
the engine burped
and spun the prop.
The guy lost
his head—just
like that.
Ellen Knight
Says so much with deceptive simplicity. Its spareness makes its power. Zap.
A WWII Reflection
I took a European voyage
on the Queen Mary
at the request of Uncle Sam.
Endured, bloody battles, fear,
and carnage.
Missed my wife and child
for many long months.
At last came home.
Established a business
and worked hard.
Now I see history in repetition
heading for the same sad end,
but I’m too old to fight again.
not new, but I like it, so…
O-Dark-Thirty
It is o-dark-thirty and I am flying,
death surely on its way,
how quickly nothing else matters.
It‘s 0230, and I’ve been blown up,
thinking, this is what it is to die,
that’s all that’s left to matter.
There’s no fear, only sadness,
but not even one thought for me,
just for the tears of the ones who matter.
I meet my mother,
dead for nine-plus years,
and I am no longer matter.
She says, go back, you can not stay,
there’s still work for you,
you must attend to matters.
It’s easy now, to understand,
the work is peace, the goal is peace,
that’s all that really matters.
What Changes You
I’ve seen a lot of beautiful things
in my travels,
been to a lot of exotic locales
I never would have ventured to on my own
but they can’t mask the reasons I was there
or what I did in the name of my country.
There are images now indelible,
inerasable.
Maybe with time, they will fade
but I know they won’t completely go away,
I’m not sure I want them too -
I don’t want to forget.
You can’t expect to come home unchanged.
Life has a different meaning now
and so does death –
When I meet my maker
I hope I can look him in the eye
and see…
what?
Forgiveness? Acceptance? Compassion?
Maybe just …peace.
A Veteran
I was a nurse in the Army,
you know, during the war.
World War II. It’s easy
to forget there have been
other wars, because that’s
the one I saw with my own
eyes, the one where I
sewed up wounds with
barely enough anesthetic,
and nothing, nothing at all
to take the real pain away.
At night, sometimes, all
the boys would lie awake,
raving, still hearing bombs
even though all was quiet
then. You don’t know what
quiet is, or noise, until
you’ve been the only one
in her right mind on the ward
at night, all the doctors
off somewhere else,
sleeping, I guess, or else
forgetting in ways I never
could. I was allowed to
give something to help
those broken boys sleep,
and sometimes I did,
when a needle seemed
kindest. More often,
though, I sang lullabies,
asked about mother,
sweetheart at home,
patted the place where
a hand used to be.
Funny thing is, sometimes
I could feel the gone hand
squeezing mine. I still can.
I still do.
Elegant, lovely, and powerful. Good job!
Across a Choppy Sea
Bering Strait’s charm
Failed to entice so many
Who stood to wait for coming
Orders, for a coming life.
Troops and more to count,
Walked aboard for our
Next forced adventure,
Onto waves seasick spewed.
No one told me Hell
Had arrived; no one I knew
Had given it another name,
Had placed it on a map,
Although I learned quick
Enough it could freeze over
And its flames could drip
My sweat beneath summer’s sun.
Written from my father’s relayed memories.
OF HONOR AND REMEMBRANCE
They leave an impression,
teaching the lessons of life
through the dedication to a nation,
the love of family, God and country.
The have earned all that they have
thrust upon them in honor
and remembrance they are heroic,
a stoic wall in defense for all.
Thank you for your service!
Fallen Soldier
Accidents will happen
when we’re placed in harms way.
There are no small victories
had from lives lost for the cause.
In the land of the free
we ask ourselves,
what is a field of crosses?
A field of mourning,
or a field of celebration?
Many of us have returned home
in a box so that
those here may enjoy
the freedom of speech
and the right
to peacefully assemble
amongst other rights and freedoms.
Yet, we witness injustice everywhere.
Are we one step closer
to preserving our freedoms
as my name
is engraved upon the wall?
I heard you thank me
for my gift of sacrifice.
Will we ever get it right?
By Michael Grove
Thirteen folds
He would not permit that it touch
the ground. The Flag. Methodically,
he gave his orders, calling forth
a kind of reverence in that dusty hall.
Fold lengthwise once, twice, he said,
making sure the stars are facing out.
Then beginning at the far end from
the field of blue, take the striped corner
of the folded edge and fold a triangle
upwards to the open edge. Turn the
triangle inwards parallel to the top edge,
and make another triangle.
Keep folding triangles, carefully,
solemnly, eleven times in all,
until you reach the end and all that
shows is a perfect three-cornered hat,
a pillow of stars on a free blue sky.
We followed every instruction..
It was as if his life depended on it.
Maybe ours did too.
(based on a story my Dad told about a fellow telegrapher in Alaska in WWII)
MuFu
I was going
crazy
in this
icebox
so far from
home
I would drink
anything
to check out
for a while
or just
get warm
they wouldn’t
let me go
because
I was too good
even on lighter fluid
I could transcribe
messages as fast
as anyone
could send them.
MuFu
Sign off
The War was
over sooner
for me.
I like this a lot. It’s a strong persona.
GOLD STAR MOTHERS
Tears of love and pride
flowing, for their glowing example
and sacrifice, never thinking twice
to give their lives so the babies of other
mothers can live free. Honor and glory
are their story. For all they have given
we are grateful. Mothers rest your hearts.
They have gone home!
HappyVeteran’s Day!There is no Happy
to this day. Remember them.
And bring them home… SOON.
HEAT OF BATTLE
The heat sears into my chest,
piercing me like a lance driven
by the force of ferocity. I yell,
telling anyone who can hear
that I am here. Arms splayed
from my sides, looking skyward
as air support flies over, strafing.
My breath is labored, gasps of life
escaping. Crimson wetness
spreading, draining and staining
the ground below me. Sounds
of machine gun and mortar,
muted and fading, darkness
invading my sight, staring at no one
there. I pray for a quick solution.
I gurgle to God to end my pain,
but my brain will not allow my heart
to die for sometime. Light flashes,
synapses of life gone by. Silence
engulfs me. Looking down upon
myself as I lay unattended.
All my pain is gone. Mercy
is given to me. I die.
Powerful, Walt. Multiplied thanks for those who serve and make the ultimate sacrifice.
Thank you, Sally! Ensconced in WWII movies and Documentaries. It’s apparently making an impression.
Sunday Visit at the VA Hospital
He doesn’t want what the VA offers,
afraid that he will be the army’s guinea pig
again, wanting dignity now that
that ship has sailed.
He moans and watches the news on TV
filled with suicide and roadside bombings,
blurred clips of young men like his grandson,
running into the unknown, wide-eyed,
terrified, and armed to the teeth
with weaponry and idealism.
He thinks he sees himself there on TV
and wonders if he’s having visions again.
Look there, he says, they’re making
more veterans like us every day,
but can’t take care of the ones they’ve got.
He points around him at the remnants
of men sitting and lying, or leaning
on walkers or crutches, asleep or wide awake.
One bomb could keep most of us well cared for
for years, He pauses and rubs his eyes.
It’s a sad sad thing, he says,
that the cheapest piece of equipment
in any war is a soldier. We lament the loss of a plane,
but thousands of men can be lost in a day
and only the widows, mothers, and babies weep.
Oh Jane. There are no words. Brilliant.
For my baby brother, Army Special Forces Sergeant, who heads to parts unknown on Tuesday.
Deployments
My boys are 6 months
and 3 now, and my
gorgeous wife cut
her hair again and
tied a yellow ribbon
around what was left
and let me tell you, friend:
Coming home is
like breathing.
But I leave tomorrow.
Again.
.
AFTER
And I joke about breaking my
arm
on purpose just to get sent
home
and I joke about how much we
drank
when we were in port and between
horrors
and I joke about the women we met
but
when the dark hours come and I
drink
from bottles hid in the garage and I
pull
out my gun and I tell my wife and my
kids
that I could put them in the ground if I
want
and I tell them about the
friend
we had to shoot because the
enemy
had him and we knew what would happen
next—
they call it
PTSD,
but me? I just call it
my
life.
testing
Nobody said there was going to be a test today.
lolInsurgents
The destroy their own buildings
you know.
The blow off the roof and
then destroy the staircases
in the houses
so we have to go
where they want us to go.
So there we are, like
rats in a maze
and they built the maze.
and we have to search
inside for survivors,
waiting for the trap that will
blow someone’s legs off
or find the kid who
turns out to have a rifle.
One of ‘em, he was just a kid,
he wounded one of my guys,
and we shot at him, of course.
But when he went down,
I went to help him.
I couldn’t leave him there.
And his hand came up,
and he brushed my hair,
and he touched my cheek
and looked at me.
This was one of the worst moments of my life
because he was a person,
fighting for his life.
And I took it.
INCENDIARY
Fire storm to pock a peaceful morning,
early dawning and we’re hunkered down.
The sounds interrupting communication,
hand signals informing, telling of formations
and warnings. Enemy fire over the ridge,
brothers in arms falling, calling in fear
and pain, and the rain begins. All hope
hinges on your will and His. This is not
hell. This is war. Hell comes later.
Another wow …
Phantom
I have come back from a dry, rocky hell
feeling hollow, needing to be filled again.
I hold my family close. My dog licks my face,
and I take him with me to the woods,
down to the brook, where he chases squirrels,
while I sit on a stump and listen
to the birds, the gurgling water.
It all seems new again.
Moments like this, I am at peace,
and I feel safe within the walls of home,
although it’s never far behind me,
that other fear, the bloody phantom
that comes leaping at me in my dreams.
[Once again I used the "Wordle" word bank from The Sunday Whirl blog in conjunction with this prompt. The words were dry, rocky, hollow, wood, brook, birds, new, walls, although, never, phantom, leaping.]
SHIP TO SHORE
Navy Blues adorned a young man,
his hands rough and calloused,
but no malice in his heart.
At the start of his adulthood,
with nothing but a good love
of God and country. A sailor
navigating life’s rough water,
stem to stern, yearning to give
all he can so others may live,
strong in freedom and peace.
It was the least he could do!
Through Closed Eyes
Every night I try to sleep
Through closed eyes
The nightmares creep
Flashbacks from years ago
Bursting bombs and firefights
Best friends dying
And Mothers crying
O’er sons that never came home
In the basement of the VFW
A place they called the Foxhole canteen
When the bars c losed at 1 AM the guys
locked the upstairs doors and retreated
to the private basement -
all the young men that fought in WW2
and some of the older guys from WW1
They sat around sipping on the drinks
smoking cigrarets, and someone would
remember something and so the conversations
began, details fresh and gory, haunted by the
loss of friends, wondering why they were spared…
Some 50 years after the founding of the
Foxhole Canteen
It disappeared a long time ago when the place
was remolded when the young Vietnam Vets moved in
Once everyone thought eventually it would close
when all the Vets had passed away.
Little did they know that a steady supply
of wars and veterans would continue and
now no one can see any ending at all.
Ugh. So true…
HEROES
He doesn’t talk about it, since he’s home,
not to us. Mostly he takes long walks in the hills
with the new dog. In the distance sometimes
I hear him talking like the dog would understand
things beyond words. All he says to us, it was
a war zone. So many dead. Then he puts on his cap
and jacket, whistles for the dog, and walks out
the door. Sometimes I hear him call the old dog
in his sleep. Then at dawn he’ll be out again,
walking with the new dog. I found a photo from that
time, him and his old dog, I guess. Just his fatigues
from the knees down, combat boots, dog lying
at his feet, its head on his helmet for a pillow,
fast asleep in war-dreams, or maybe peace.
I love this!
–what she said.
Tanks
You think it’s expensive
to fill yours?
Here’s what I gave
in mine:
an arm
and a leg,
and my whole heart.
.
Wow!
Second that!
Wow. Wow.
Another one I would love to pass along on facebook. This begs to be share quickly and widely.
pierced to the heart. this needs to be passed along.
Coming Home
(Day 11)
Coming home, a dream
that faded as I touched the shore,
strolled among green fields,
sat by the glowing fire,
took my children by their hand,
and when I kissed my wife
I found a stranger
not the dream I’d held so close
when coming home,
no, one that faded when
I touched the shore.
“A Soldier Deploys” (Rispetto poem)
prepared to make a difference nation-wide
poised to secure others a safe tomorrow
offer selfless service in honor and pride
find my way ending terrorism’s sorrow
yet hesitant within such uncertainty
wondering what my own tomorrow will be
holding close, for now, those whom I love so dear
knowing that the risk is stronger than my fear
Free from politics
Voluntary sacrifice
Dedicate wonder
IN OUR DEFENSE
(a shadorma)
Freedom is
taken for granted
by many.
I have fought
for it, and I will do it
again if needed.
In honor of my friend and hero, TLH.
A Brave Stand
I learned to shoot when I was eight,
Providing food to fill each plate.
I’d roam the forest covered hills.
To hunt and fish would give me thrills.
When I was only twenty-one
I joined the army with my gun.
My friend who was most brother-like
Was killed before my very eyes.
And only some short days had passed,
It grieved my heart, but alas
My own dear brother died in France.
I knew I didn’t live by chance.
With firm resolve I fought and stood
For folks back home, the right and good,
Enduring war and bitter strife
In hopes we’d win a better life.
I went back home with purple heart,
So glad to have a chance to start
A family of a wife and girls.
To me they meant the whole great world.
In the steel mill I worked hard for
What I fought hard for in the war,
For those I love, my lovely wife
For right and good, and better life.
Fathers Brothers Sons
The sirens rang again last night
it seems they’re increasing
in their frequency
We lost another the day before
his plane went down
while providing ground cover
A helicopter full of soldiers
a young man in a humvee
a three person bomb squad
We all serve
some give their lives
because these colors don’t run
To Save A Few Dollars
Their
lip
service
is nothing
but spit on the graves
of our brothers who never got
the chance to see them quietly renege on the deal.
Veterans Dine Free on Veteran’s Day
I’m sitting in an Applebee’s.
My waiter says, “Sarge, if you please,
what is your choice for drink or fare?”
I shift my weight some in my chair.
My waiter, he is miles away
from sand and bombs and foreign fray.
This server says, “Our whole staff cares.”
I shift my weight some in my chair.
If you’re not there, you cannot know
that serving isn’t just for show.
And yet the truth is hard to bear.
I shift my weight some in my chair.
My waiter says, “There is no charge
for veterans.” He adds, “Thanks, Sarge.”
I glance down at my legs (not there)
and shift my weight some in my chair.
###
OMG, you guys are going to make me cry today. I don’t know what to write.
This made me shift some weight in my chair. Love the rhythm.
http://whateverescapesmymind.blogspot.com/2012/11/wrote-this-robert-brewers-poetic-asides.html
insists i posted here, but not showing. luckily my blog is still up.
I also will be back to write a new one for this prompt, but in the meantime, I’ll share one I wrote this summer.
UNENCUMBERED TIME
gone are my days
of hopscotch, hide-n-seek,
and colored streamers
on bike handles;
shadows shifting in shape,
as days blend one into the next,
with the only purpose
of providing a backdrop
for navigating through
unencumbered time
now my days are filled
with hopping from planes,
seeking out the enemy,
and wearing our colors
on my shoulder while I stand watch,
as days blend one into the next,
with the purpose
of preserving freedom
for my kids and their
unencumbered time
No words
She asks the question,
as I hold her too tight.
She asks the question,
in the dark, in the night.
Thinking I’d speak
freely now
legs entwined
hearts beating as one
heads bone to bone.
She repeats her question
as I hold her tight.
Wanting to be a part
of my world
to join our memories
willing me back into
hers.
She repeats the question
in the dark, in the night
“Over there, what was
it like?”
“Wanting to be a part
of my world
to join our memories
willing me back into
hers.”
i love how this shows the struggle it must be.
Off prompt today, for the first time this challenge. I’ve written many poems on this theme and don’t want to write another – they make me too sad and often angry as well!
In Defiance of modern mores
Much published poetry these days
makes little sense
which explains why it is so difficult
to find an editor who likes mine:
straightforward and credible as it is.
Skill with rhyme and metre
can be decried as trite.
Puns and other wordplay
are cast aside as childish.
But ask your average person
what kind of poem he likes,
he’ll tell you none, unless it rhymes
or swings along like music,
but, above all, it must make sense.
Good morning everyone!
http://wordrustling.wordpress.com/2012/11/11/day-eleven-poem-from-a-veterans-pov-a-haiku/
The Stranger
Jonsey saw me through the window,
Barked wildly and woke the neighbors,
I knocked on my own door like a stranger,
In seconds opened, a flurry of arms opened,
Jason is twelve. Almost shaving and I hope,
He’ll just stay young for a while.
Look up to me, but not right there in my footsteps.
Hope fades a little as I see Black-Ops,
Paused on a television I don’t recognize.
My son, time will tell if the blood shed,
Set the globe right, put a better spin on its axis,
But it took me off mine and though I may,
Any day, stop gunning it through intersections,
The ground truth will stay with me. Leave me rigid.
It will never be a grand adventure?
“But it took me off mine”…such a way to put that.
Umm…such a “great” way to put that. And yeh, the whole Black Ops thing freaks me out a bit…really? this looks like fun to you?
please do not ask me
were innocent people killed
and was I involved
Wow. Perfect in brevity…♥
i know veterans scarred by exactly that…so succinctly put, your poem makes me catch my breath.
OVER THERE
I watch victory’s sun arise
over Normandy skies,
here where I and many other
sons lay, markers on display.
Faceless names are we
in a sea of marble and granite
reaching to touch the face
of God and the hearts of
a nation not understanding
the price we’ve paid day
after day. A return to sleep
keeping memories alive
in the shadow of victory’s sun.
I can’t imagine a more beautiful-yet-painful poem in response to this prompt.
Echoing this, Walt…excellently captured.
I’ve been to the War Memorial in Normandy, and it’s not a sad place at all. Quiet, solemn and respectful, yes, but not at all sad. There’s a very interesting serenity about the place.
I wrote this a couple of years ago. Will write another more suitable to the prompt later.
BURIED ALIVE
Buried alive in his foxhole
by the grenade that struck
too close,
yet just far enough;
he was hidden from enemy troops.
Though he lived to tell the story,
details were buried with him.
They never wanted to talk about their time during the war, whether to protect us or to just forget I’m not sure. I never pushed, as my dad never pushed me for details I wanted to forget.
You are exactly right, Misk. And wise.
So glad you re-shared so affecting. ♥
Yes, touching story! And well depicted, as usual!
Dad’s Shrapnel
One day as I tweezed another
shiny shape of shrapnel
from his back, these little
bits of metallic confetti
that poured down on him
some forty-years before,
shimmering hot showers as his
ship exploded and blew
everyone standing nearby
clear off the ship’s deck, anyway …
I asked him what did you do
during the war, Dad. He said
that he learned to throw up over
the side of the ship without
falling overboard.
I removed another shiny
spectre, and dropped it
into the bathroom sink.
“Seasick?” I asked.
“No,” he replied, “…just sick.”
Oh my.
Oh my …
Yeah.
this just brought tears to my eyes…
Ah Misk … there is nothing to say.
A Sailor of WWII once told me
I’ve always believed
That nothing is ever
Truly learned or understood
Until it is first experienced
An old sailor once told me
The most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen
was looking up at that beautiful scene
when our ship steamed under
that beautiful Golden Gate Bridge
Here’s mine:
http://in-our-notice-board.5451.n7.nabble.com/November-2012-Poem-A-Day-Chapbook-Challenge-td2.html#a10
“I heard no birds
and mama
wasn’t there. ”
Tears are falling, Andrea. The excerpt from you piece grabbed my heart, but the poem in its entirety is one of your very finest, in my opinion.
WOW.
*your* piece
Fantastic, Andrea. So much with so few words.
We don’t call it Veterans’ Day here – it is Remembrance Day – same but different.