Well...here we are again. Sorry I've been away.

Thanks to everyone who have checked for signs of life on this blog. A lot of personal stuff kept me occupied. But now that I have my life back in order, I can write again. The next three poems are a trilogy, although they did not start out that way. Rick Weinard challenged me to write a poem and it took three poems to finally get it right. Thanks for the push, Rick. Two of the poems, Quota and The Uncertainty of the Moment I have posted before. But I want to present all three at once for continuity. I know....the subject matter is very serious/dark, so don't be suprised.

Capture The Flag

yellow neckerchief/cubscout blue.
parents smile
clueless
as he chases friendships (clueless) with
bangbangyourdead-count to twenty
in a picnic park at the edge of town.
he swallows ice cream and body counts from Viet Nam
numbers stare stark from
the family TV.

mainstreet marching/cadence singing
weblo medals sparkle sunshine and innocence.
crowds cheer/laugh in celebration.
their little soldiers place tiny flags on
graves in the cold spring sun.

flags/etched stones mean little to him.
yelling jokes to his friends
hearing their laughter shatter the solemn
silence that surround him.

grey clouds darken to the summer’s west

midnight games in boy scout green.
low crawling at the edge of a black
and shapeless forest.
he charges with deadly intent to capture the flag.
proves he is the warrior of his troop.
the best the night has to offer/receive.

honor guard duty
holding flags upright
against cold/bitter november winds.
feeling pride that adults appreciate his serious face
his measured strides and salute.

recruiters polish his ego (like hollywood).
the chopper lands beside his school.
picked to carry his best friend on a combat litter
in make-believe horror
heroic dreams spin about him
(like dead/dried leaves)
caught up in the spinning, rotor blades.

telling unsure parents of his patriotic intent
he sees only the flag,
is captured by its uniform glory,
then walks into the snow of his brief life
until his tracks disappear in darkness.
____________________________

Quota

With a wall to wall chest of medals,
A handshake for the parent,
Free pens and caps all around,
Funding for college (obscures the truth)
At the corner’s of the Recruiter’s hard lips as
the SAW bucks and smokes in his hands
(he remembers it all)
the worried look on the mother’s face
she signs the parental release for her 17yr old
“Man, you are gonna look good in uniform
Playing football is gonna help you a lot!
You are honoring your mother today
Raise your right hand, state your name and”
You can’t hear IEDs screaming towards you.
Angry metal and flame floating out with
No escape/no Haji to fight as diesel blackened
Headaches spiderweb your thoughts like the
Bloodied windshield from the RPG
He pulls the limp, legless SGT from the fire
“You goin’ infantry?
Huge bonus if you re-enlist
Hell, I’ll swear you back in, myself.
No matter what, you will always be a soldier
You can always be proud of that”.
Then the woman and her starry-eyed son
Step out into the strip mall’s snowy parking lot.
He meant every word he said to the high school football star.
But couldn’t tell him (or anyone else) how
He fought to go back down range
Would go in place of any recruit he enlisted.
He needs to go back so he can (somehow...magically) stop
A convoy being hit and keep
His last recruit from slumping over the wheel and
Going away with the sun into endless night.
Glancing from his recruiting awards
To the piles of paperwork on his desk
He hesitates
Haunted from meeting
His quota.

_____________________________

The Uncertainty of the Moment

before death floated
in and out of him
his last images
were of biting flies
dancing in his fading breath.

the world raced forward without waiting
it was lonely to lie in sticky, red sand as
smoke, burning fuel and
distant shouts covered him
head to toe.

Fitner was blood and pieces of flesh the size of
marbles in corners impossible to reach.
the world went dark red with
flame as its horizon when the vehicle shattered
from remote detonation in a road
cleared 12 hours ago..

Fitner was so fuckin’ funny when he
imitated the platoon sergeant.
if it weren’t for Fitner
convoys would be hell on earth

he was so tired of this shit.
tired of mountains with
glowing rusty snow
painted by an ignorant sun.
he cleaned his weapon again.
thirty days and a wake-up
left of this godforsaken tour.

missions blurred his memory,
robbed him of what to feel.
his life was becoming vague and sleepless.
when his friends died or were evac’d
he was able to recall with nightmares what happened.
otherwise he counted the days.

he pulled himself into the transport parked on a boiling tarmac.
fantasies of valor and medals would not sustain him.
he no longer felt like a Hollywood hero
stumbling off the plane.
foreign smells and anger undid
his sense of purpose.
ground crews avoided eye contact.
the uncertainty of the moment surprised him.

wishing he had some hot
chick to kiss goodbye.
it would look so cool.
family hugs were embarrassing with
the unit so near
forming in rows like blunt grey-green teeth
on the basketball court.

like in the movies pop was proud, teary-eyed.
mom was silent and held on for dear life.
he just wanted to get going already
so he pushed her gently away.

it would be awesome.
he would do this for real.
he was so good at video games
knew just when to shoot.
usually got to the next level without
dying more than twice.

it couldn’t be that hard to do.

__________________________________


Let me know your thoughts.

b