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

A Happy Poem (at last... I know!)

I am answering a challenge poem from Laurie J., a high school friend of mine. She liked the poem I posted yesterday, but asked that the next poem be about puppydogs and rainbows. Well, Laurie...I hope this fits the bill. Let me know what you think.

Puppydogs and Rainbows

Rainbows don’t fetch balls or Frisbees
Don’t come when you call
They run from you
Then disappear into dark
Swollen angry clouds.
Rainbows aren’t loyal companions,
Just reminders that it is raining on your day.

Puppydogs aren’t prisms of hope.
They have wet fur smell when coming in from the rain
Tracking mud across the carpet
Chewing anything in reach
Not a pot of gold in sight.
Just poop that needs cleaning up.

Let us dismiss the need for both.
We are not children anymore.
The days of kites and wonder are gone.
(Oh, who am I trying to fool?)

When my dogs lick my chin
(as if nothing else could be as important)
Then no leprechaun’s loot can compare.
The colors of joy and play in their eyes
Flopping ears arcing and dancing
Sniffing every blade of grass
As we walk about after a spring shower
Defines the hope for our tomorrows.

And let me tell you of rainbows.
Showing us that all will be well.
Decorating the storms in our lives
So we won’t be so afraid
Of the thunder in our future.
They come when we don’t call them.
Leave when we can see the sun again.
That, my friends, is loyalty.

Puppydogs and rainbows save the child in us all.

_____________________________________

Take time to hug your pet and dream of rainbow gold.
Take care of each other.

orn b.

Military Poetry

Its been a long time since my last poem. Sorry about that. This weekend marks one year that this blog has been up. The poem below is in response to a challenge that Rick Weinard put to me. Although my last poem was to answer that challenge, Rick let me know that he was not satisfied, and so the challenge remained. Rick wanted me to write a poem depicting the shift from naivete of a new recruit to the understanding of a soldier in combat. Rick, I hope this suffices. Writing this poem was very different for me. I started with the end and ended with the beginning. Also, after I wrote the entire poem, I then addressed each stanza, reversing the order of each sentence (the last sentence went first, and the first sentence went last). I was actually amazed at how different the meaning was by doing so. If you have the time, try reading the poem from end to beginning.

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 what your thoughts are about this poem. Have a safe Memorial Day and please honor the fallen soldiers and their families who mourn and miss them. Til next time.

orn b

Well, its been a while since I last posted. Today's poem is a military theme. It is in answer to a challenge/suggestion for a poem by Rick W., my best friend. I have worked with soldiers who do recruiting duty and I am struck by how torn they are between doing the best job they can do and knowing what it is they are recruiting for. This poem seeks to understand this push pull situation. I respect recruiters for what they must do, often being pulled into recruiting duty when it is the last thing they want to do. Again, this poem does not describe any one recruiter nor is it intended to depict a verbatim experience, but is a synthesis of those I have encountered. By the way, SAW stands for Squad Automatic Weapon (it is a light machine gun).


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.

_____________________________________

Let me know your thoughts. Take care.

b

Challenge Poem

Hello everyone!
Last poem of 2010. This is a challenge post response to my nephew. He wanted to see if I could do a poem about football. Well...here it is. I write about what I know. I was an offensive lineman in High School, and played two years of semi-pro football as an offensive lineman, and coached one year of semi-pro as the Offensive Line Coach. If you want the full effect of the poem, I highly encourage you to read it out loud with an old fashioned Blues beat in your head. It is more fun that way.

Talk to ya next year.

Lineman Blues

Just as I lean forward,
The fans scream from their pews.
The ref throws a flag at me,
I got those Lineman blues!

Refrain:
Lineman Blues...Oh...the Lineman Blues.
The Drive, it just keeps on foldin’.
‘Cause I can’t stop holdin’
On to dem ol’ Lineman Blues.

My body’s like iron.
Make a linebacker moan.
Just don’t throw a pass to me,
Because my hands are made of stone.

Refrain:
Lineman Blues...Oh...got the Lineman Blues.
The fans don’t really know me.
No autographs to slow me,
From dem ol’ Lineman Blues.

Can’t catch no endorsements,
Can’t seem to light a fuse.
Nobody wants to see a lineman
Wearing blue jeans or drinking booze.

Refrain:
Lineman Blues...Oh...the Lineman Blues.
If we win, they never name me,
Any sack, y’know they blame me,
With dem ol’ Lineman Blues.

___________________________________

Have a great new year, and cheer
for a lineman once in a while!

b

Christmas Poem

I've been out of the loop for a month now. But things are slowing down and I have time to write (and answer some challenge poem ideas). Today's poem is new, and I wrote it with the past and the present in mind. Christmas time, like so many things in my life, have changed since childhood. There was a time when I was quite the "bah humbug" type of guy. Guess I am going in a circle in terms of how I see this time of year. I'm still not the type to decorate or shop for gifts, but I see Christmas as meaning something again.


Never Sure About Christmas

I’m never sure about Christmas.
When hope loops like ropes of tinsel on a tree.
Brought out for display with the music of the times,
Then packed away
In boxes,
Forgotten until winter reminds us again
To decorate our lives for each other.

Your hope is beautiful.
Wear it year around.

I’m never sure why we shop
For our presents
While our pasts
Lie unwrapped and put to the side.
We run down the stairs,
Children once more,
Ripping the wrappings of our future.
Watching what others become.

I'll help you assemble your happiness,
You can steady my bike as I steer into life.

I’m never sure if I’ll like what I get.
Christmas is the stuff of uncertainty.
The mystery of cookies and milk eaten as I sleep,
Finding gifts I must figure out on my own.

I’m never sure about Christmas
Until I hold it close.
______________________________

Let me know your thoughts.
Have a safe and happy holiday.

Orn

My first challenge poem!

Hey everyone. This week I offer two poems. The first one is a Veterans' Day Poem I wrote many years ago. The second one is in response to the first challenge poem of this blog! Way to go Dawn. I have a second challenge already and I WANT MORE!! It makes me create something each week, and I love it. Make me earn your support on this blog. Okay...enough already.

This first poem I wrote back when I was at the University of Iowa (thousand years ago). I remember the inspiration was seeing the dark, grey sky reflected in a puddle on a cold Veteran's day. I was out walking. The breeze was making the water ripple. It was like the whole of the world had just cried itself out.

Fades in My Tears

Mute.
Grief-spent the sky stared
At its wind quivering reflection.
Threatened renewed anguish.
Autumn yellow fades in its tears.
I could not console it.

Wisdom.
Plentiful as the wreathes on cold granite
Decorates my mind
Dies in my throat.

Duty Honor Country Sacrifice
Confuses me.

The cost
Humbles me.

Blood-rusted oaks try to hold back
The sky’s tears.
I share it’s burst of pain
But cannot console it.

The effort dies in my throat.
Fades in my tears.
____________________________

This poem is in answer to Dawn Reed Vinkavich's challenge . She recalled the days of our high school days. In those days, we would muster our courage and alcohol, and visit the Black Angel of Oakwood Cemetary, Iowa City, IA. For those not schooled in local Iowan lore, the Black Angel was a statue/grave stone that was cursed, and frequently visited by the curious (and sometimes the brash). In all the visits I paid the Angel, I never once thought about the dead the Angel was meant to remember. Dawn, this poem is not a funny recollection of our teen days, but an acknowledgement of what so many of us missed. Rodina Feldevertova is Czech for "the Family of Feldevert. It is the name chiseled on the base of the angel.

Rodina Feldevertova

In your darkest nights
Amid the laughter of drunken
Mischief looking for bragging rights,
You hold out for dignity.

The mystery of your silent, menacing repose is
Broken by macabre photos
Touches from the curious
Whispers of what is wrong
About you

You did not ask for
The insensitive trampling
Of your solitude.

So many visit you
Yet forget your purpose.

You weep for Rodina Feldevertova.
They lie (unnoticed)
Beneath your open wings
(and) away
From our darkest hearts.

____________________________

May you all laugh and love beneath the wings of your guardian angels.
Until next time.

b