Back When I was in Korea

This week, I thought I would share some poems I wrote when I was in the Army and doing some training in South Korea. They say that soldiers are happiest when they are complaining...so I must have been euphoric. The first two poems are about Army training in the field. I wrote them to amuse myself and my fellow soldiers. As much as I like to write free verse poetry, I love to write rhyming poetry (it just makes me laugh, I guess!). The 3rd poem is a poem I wrote in response to a challenge. A sergeant bet me I couldn't write a Halloween poem in less than an hour in the middle of the Spring. It was late at night, in a tent and it was freezing out. Its different...Happy Halloween.

This first poem (and the second poem) have some military jargon and acronyms that I will explain now, otherwise, it may not make much sense (there will be a quiz afterwards):

FTX: Field Training Exercise
O.D. (Olive Drab...the color of our uniforms)
PFC: Private First Class
LT: Lieutenant

FTX Contemplation I
(Korea)

The tent is green, the lights are white,
The ground is reddened clay.
My chair is hard, my butt is sore,
From soldiering all day.
The cots are up, the rain falls down.
Our night is cloaked in black.
The dawn has yet to make its day,
We dream of going back.
The tents - they rise.
The tents - they fall.
The tents - we fold.
The tents - we haul.
Inside the tents the world is O.D.,
Inside our clothes, we smell so grodie.
Sergeants, Captains, PFC.
Mud and web belts, and one LT.
Its just a job, its just a thrill,
To ward off boredom, and fight off chill.
You think of booze, but not of sex.
Nights are too long on an FTX.
You carry on bravely, and don your mask.
Ponder the questions you never dare ask.
And the rain just keeps falling,
As it did in the past.
_____________________________
In Korea, human feces is often used as crop fertilizer. It was common for a military unit to get permission from a Korean Farmer to use his field to set up tents in, but only if all the soldiers would defecate in the field before leaving (I am dead serious.) More definitions...sorry.

cammo: Camouflage netting used to hide tents and scramble electronics
TOC: Tactical Operations Center (where I worked when in the field)
OB bars: Korean Taverns that served cheap Korean beer
MRE (Meals Ready to Eat served in plastic pouches)
Mr. T's: Massive trays of ready to heat meals, perhaps the worst tasting food ever made.
Combat Trains (Support units that have food, clothes, equipment, etc.)
XO: Executive Officer (2nd in Command of the Battalion)
ENDEX: The End of the Exercise (some of the best words in the English Language)

FTX Contemplation II
(Korea)

The cammo net goes way up high,
To hide the TOC from passers-by.
We pack the tents and jump in trucks
Like human duffle bags and rucks.
We do this several times a day
To justify our army pay.
We shiver far beneath the stars
And fantasize of "O.B." bars.
We have no choice of what to wear
So mix and match without a care.
And when we turn to run or fight,
We break down TOC in dark of night.
We don’t move out ‘til light of day,
There has to be an better way.

Manure is our main TOC floor,
Manure makes my bed.
Manure permeates my clothes,
And clings around my head.

M-R-E’s, “Mr.-T’s”, a moon-pie and a coke,
We’re on a constant sugar buzz
So full of shit we choke.
Korean snows and radios make me want to laugh,
I pity those in the combat trains
With the XO of our staff.
“Safety” is the motto cheer,
Goat-fuck is the rule.
The locals folks ignore us here
As one ignores a fool.
ENDEX never comes too soon,
The trucks to leave too fast.
I’ve memories enough to share,
And dirt enough to last.
I worry about our training, though.
Were all the standards met?
Or are we hiding all our faults
Beneath our cammo net?
__________________________

This last poem still creeps me out a little. (What was I thinking?!?)

Rites

Bloodied, the moon approved the sacrifice.
Blessed the Blackest Sabbath.
A single tree, stained dark by countless lives,
Held innocence fast.

“Circle gather to call his name.
Washed in blood to feed the flame.”

Clammycold death touches her to the soul.
Grips her life.
Devours her screams as delicious.

“Circle join to be as one
Praise his name, his will be done.”

Hooded forms of soulless night.
Timeless dead
Performing rites of madness.
Rituals of horror.
Dripping.
Drooling.
Tasting.
At last, she sees no more.
The tree has its shroud.

“Circle flows his power gives.
Draws life from death, and deathless, lives.”

Without comment, the moon stalked away into the clouds.
The night, filled with guilty silence,
Awaited the dawn’s purging.

And the rites of Halloween live on.
________________________________

Let me know your thoughts. 'Til next time, take care of yourselves.

b

Hodge Podge

Today I thought I would share some poems that are...well, different. The first is an angry poem. The second, a poem that I hope displays some humor. I actually delight in writing funny stuff, but they are usually about and for friends, and the jokes are usually known only to a few, so I will explain a few points. If you like the humorous one, I will share more. Let me know.

During my stint as a therapist, I worked with children. Often, they had some pretty horrific backgrounds. Almost always, an adult knew about the abuse and didn't tell anyone because they didn't want to be involved. The metaphor of the poem came when I was visiting inlaws many years back. Racoons were rampant in the area, and the process was to trap the racoon and then shoot it in the cage. Then someone else would hose the blood from the driveway.

Never Touched a Soul

i flinch every time it happens.
close my eyes and ears
so my ignorance remains just so.
hose blood off the driveway
(its good for the grass, i hear).
i mean, i didn’t put it there,
the blood, that is.
made sure i wasn’t too close to the action.
looked away just in time.
habit i guess. (and a good one, i might add).
if i may be so bold:
take my advice
stay out of the dark places,
children die there, (in the dark places, i mean).
rotting in corners of closets
backrooms in basements.
i’ve seen it.
helped provide the apathy.
but never touched a soul.
never ever.
absolutely disgraceful nowadays.
how innocence is slaughtered.
so many monsters with time on their hands.
i’ve seen ‘em.
the houses they live in (the children and the monsters).
not to worry, just follow my lead:
tend to your lawn.
if i had a forte (love that word, forte).
it would be the cleansing of my conscience.
its as cleanas a whistle.
(i’m told blood is good for the grass).

________________________________________

This next poem I wrote for a fellow intern when I was getting my doctorate in psychology. She came up from Texas for the year long internship. She could only afford an apartment in the worst part of town. Her deadbeat spouse did not pay the monthly car bill, so her car was temporarily repossessed, her dog was...well read for yourself. The episode with the crow is true. I love Edgar Allen Poe's "The Raven", so here is my tribute to her perseverance and Poe's poetry.
My Ravin’
(with apologies to Edgar Allen Poe and his poem, The Raven)

As I wondered in the ghettos, stepping over used stilettos, feeling knowledge rich, and yet so intern poor.
While I plodded, slowly walking, suddenly gunfire came a-pocking, with gangstas softly mocking, mocking at the year I had in store.
“‘Tis only gang-banging”, I muttered, “mocking me so poor.
Only this and nothing more.”

With fears I do remember, the Fall into December, double locking all my windows, and triple checked the door.
As I staggered, without hoping, my sanity a-groping, with drooling dopers doping, I gave a Texan’s roar.
“My car has been stolen”, I shouted, and help I did implore.
It was repossessed, and nothing more.

With my brave retriever, a tried and true believer, hiding in by bathtub, and frightened to
The core.
He was spinning, in a tizzy, I think he got too dizzy, I did not see it, (way too busy), he fell onto
The floor.
He bumped his head, I ranted, and called for help and more.
You need help, they said, and nothing more.

With my dog more was to follow, his head still being hollow, bullied by tiny foxes that left him running for the door.
I was cleaning, inward crying, I tell the truth (I am not lying), he caught a raven that was flying, interrupting my ghetto chore.
“Drop the bird”, I screamed, chasing my dog across the floor.
My focus became that crow, and nothing more.

With raucous cries in my apartment, in my closet’s dark compartment, the raven flew as if to seek some safety’s shore.
On my head, it tried to ramp on, it’s little head I’d gladly stamp on, the fuckin’ bird had stole a tampon, and flew out my bathroom door.
“Stupid bird!” I raved, “to be so hygiene poor.”
I drank a Blue Moon sixpack, and nothing more.

As an intern I’ve paid dearly, hear me shriek in anger clearly, it is your understanding,
that I do implore.
Colorado’s cold has made me shiver, I drank so much I shot my liver, I think of jumping in the river, the warmth of Texas I do succor.
“Heading South”, I chanted, as I never had before.
And you shall hear my ravin’, nevermore.

_________________________________________________-

Let me know your thoughts and reactions. Til next time, take care of yourself and each other.

b