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SURVIVOR
I looked around
Among the realized homicides
And walking dead.
I tried to hide my own fears,
Camouflaged, as they were,
with a
Macho walk
and talk.
But the moment
Ambushed my own sanity.
I opened my eyes,
And it was like
Like opening future memories,
From a Pandora’s Box.
I stared around
And realized that
I was a survivor
Of all this insanity.
Just a survivor,
Nothing more.
#
September 27, 1967
- South Vietnam
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SUNRISE VIETNAM
The fragile sky,
Like a cracked eggshell
Of colors,
Left over from some Easter Egg Hunt,
Peeks over the horizon,
And through
The misty haze
Of smoke,
Generating
From an hours old
Napalm scorched jungle.
It
Looked
Like one big blood shot eye
Staring out
From
Heaven.
#
August 8, 1967 - South Vietnam
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CONSECRATED MOMENTS
Our eyes
Give us away.
They serve as
The mirrors of our fear.
We push onward
Down some jungle trail
Unconscious of any
"Light at the end of the tunnel"
we continue our
homicidal march
through hell.
While all our
Crazy thoughts,
Shriek and run naked
Like unlit Zippo lighters
At the ready,
Waiting to torch and consecrate
To flame and ash
All that offends us,
At that certain moment
Just as the
Fire fight begins
And our death
seems so near.
#
March 14, 1967 - South Vietnam
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JOHN F. KENNEDY REMEMBERED
John
I cried for us
When they killed you
That fateful November Day,
We were both just dreamers
On a journey
guided by youthful hope.
But we were much younger,
Than we are today.
So we knew no better.
For a long time afterwards
I used to watch for you
At the movies
(I knew it had to be you ,
even if you wore a mask )
I knew they could
not kill our dreams.
And I still believed
That no matter how
bad things looked or got
That I could count on you to ride out
On your white horse
To save the day.
I look around today John,
It has been many years
Since you rode through Dallas
And I feel alone.
The dreams
are no longer
there any more!
Damn you John,
For letting them kill us!
Where was your faithful Indian friend?
Where are you John?
#
November 22, 1966
- In-Country
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THE BELLS TOLL
The bells are ringing
Like the sound of the scared om.
Yet no one hears them.
No one wants
To listen.
It is the
death bell tolling
But I am not listening,
It is not my time to go.
No monuments
For my bones yet, please!
No plastic bag
To ship my spent remains,
Home in.
This battle
Won’t be remembered
By anyone who was not here.
This is no famous name
Or place on the map.
However,
This battle
I will remember,
Because
The bells did toll,
But not,
For me!
#
August 17, 1967 - An old French rubber tree plantation in South Vietnam
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