Skip to content

Posts from the ‘Poetry’ Category

Apr 7

A Battlefield Full of Mothers

by Doug D’Elia

I’ve passed the point of wondering
How they stand the pain
These boys lying in puddles
Of their own blood,
staring into the haze of war
with glazed over, don’t let me die
eyes.

Split open teenage boys
crying for mommies
continents away,
because they know
they’ll come,
they always have.

They’ll drop grocery bags,
suddenly feel faint, or gaze off at
the sky, imaging pear shaped womb clouds,
pregnant with warm forest rain, waiting for
their waters to break and splash the earth
with life nourishing amniotic fluid.

Mothers have magical powers
encoded before time was. A 6th or 7th sense
distress beacon of revolving lamps
designed to illuminate potential danger.

Soldiers tell of seeing mothers,
blocking bridges strapped with TNT,
standing near landmines and trip wires.
I’ve seen them in the stress of battle.
I’ve seen those see-through mothers glide over
battlefields wet with blood and birthing fluids.

Astral projections,
mistaken for angels,
kneeling over sons
holding their hand or head.

Flooding their boy with
images of his first baseball glove,
favorite bow and arrows set,
the wooden chemistry box with six
fragile glass test tubes,
and green toy soldiers that
never refused a fight,
never took a casualty,
and never lost a war.

Mothers channel life.
They bring forth children.
The bond is eternal
The severing of a hospital ward
umbilical cord is symbolic.
A shiny silver ethereal cord remains
like a phantom limb, felt long after
the flesh is discarded
as biological waste.
Its purpose served,
a higher order claims priority.

I often feel a maternal divine presence
next to me on the battlefield.
I can glimpse her brilliance in
my peripheral vision

She is here to comfort her children
and if it is time, take them
to a place especially prepared for them.
Other times, only God knows why,
she leaves them in my care
a season longer.

Sometimes I think I can feel the silver cord
connecting us to the divine.
I can sense the love, compassion and grace
ripping swiftly through the umbilical cord,
more calming than any morphine
I can dispense, and

I know the wounded body
of this son
won’t die in my arms,
not today,
not this time.

Doug grew up in Holyoke, Massachusetts, and served as an Air Force medic from 1965-1969. His war related poems have appeared in Evergreen Review, Line of Advance, and Contemporary Haibun. His chapbook “A Thousand Peaceful Buddhas” is available via email through dougvandelia@gmail.com. He is co-owner of the Onondaga School of Therapeutic Massage, and a member of the Syracuse Veterans Writers Group.

Apr 4

The Trooper

by John Sweet

The trooper had been raised a cowboy
On a dozen western ranches,
But he come of age and joined the Army
Ready to take his chances.
He wasn’t the first to make that choice
In his gnarled family tree,
Which had produced a number of troopers
For the frontier cavalry.
Nobody’d ever told him
But one old-timer had fought the Sioux,
Another had chased Geronimo.
Heck, Grandma was half-Ute.
You could say it was his destiny;
It had dealt the cards to him.
He was a cowboy and a hunter
Like so many western men.
The burning sun was setting orange
through a dusty desert sky,
and the trooper brushed his rifle off
and brushed away the flies.
He’d hunted the Rocky Mountains
In Arizona’s deserts too.
He’d bagged some elk and mule deer,
And cougars, he’d chased a few.
But this kind of huntin’ was different,
Though the basics were the same,
‘Cause this was a different country
And a different type of game.
This hunt weren’t no holiday,
No break from school or chores,
And the trooper wasn’t relaxin’
‘Cause basically, this was war.
He had some good men with him,
though some might call them boys.
(They didn’t have to do much shavin’
and they loved their noisy toys!)
They were city guys, mostly,
though a few came from the land.
The el-tee’s name was Yellowhorse,
his sergeant was from Cheyenne.
They were far from home together.
Like brothers, you might say.
Troopers didn’t think of color or birth,
and that’s the Cowboy Way.
Like the old-time trooper on the old frontier,
(the ones who’d fought the Sioux)
they’d learned respect for “Hadji.”
But to them he was “The Muj.”
The Muj weren’t no hand at shootin’
with those old Kalashnikovs
but just let him get his paws on you
and he’d lop your head right off.
If the Comanche caught a trooper, he
got tortured awful, don’t you know.
But Muj will do you just the same
And get it all on video.
The Muj don’t use no Winchesters,
Or wickiups or tepees.
But they know the land and know just where
To plant some IEDs.
So the trooper minds his business
‘cause it’s instinct from his birth.
And the eyes that glassed for antler tines
look for wires and fresh earth.
Sometimes they catch ol’ Hadji
and then they “light him up.”
They call-in Apaches or Kiowas
then Blackhawks to get the PUCs.
And sometimes the fight goes the other way
and the trooper’s friends get hit.
Then each guy handles it alone.
They might cry a little bit.
‘Cause the Tigris sure ain’t the Gunnison,
(though it looked like Yuma, out west)
When he thinks of fall without aspens
he feels hollow in the chest.
The trooper dreams of going home.
(Heck, who would want to stay?)
But first he wants to finish the fight,
‘cause that’s the Cowboy Way.

John Sweet is an educator, historian, and outdoorsman who has returned to the open spaces of the American West. He joined the Colorado Army National Guard in November, 2001 at age 35, and served two tours in Iraq as a Field Artillery officer. When he’s not deployed he lives in Palmer Lake, Colorado with his son Caleb and daughter Sheridan. These poems were written while in-theater during long nights.

Apr 2

To Chicago, The Eagle

by Elizabeth Wurz

Today, I found your paper
“Giving Back: Volunteering at the Columbus Boys and Girls Club,”
and I Googled your name. Mark Abdul Shaheer Obituary
was the first result. After two tours in Iraq,
winning, as part of “Team Wolfpack,”
the Eagle Challenge at Forward Operating Base Hammer,
taking courses at Columbus State,
marrying, and becoming a father,
you died on June 11
at your residence.

I called you Chicago—
the name on your papers: “I am
from the substandard housing projects
in the belly of Chicago, Illinois.” You wrote,
“When a volunteer spends time with a child
and teaches him the ABC’s, the volunteer earns
a young person’s trust and respect.” I shared
your service-learning paper as an example
when I gave a teaching demonstration,
and I landed this job.

As Spc. Mark Shaheer,
you transformed from Crow to Eagle
while having your rucksack inventoried,
running a mile with your rifle,
disassembling and assembling it,
marching four miles, making radio checks,
and treating casualties.

My search results included Donations Asked
for Deceased CSU Student and Soldier.

Sixteen months ago, I could have
helped with and attended your funeral.
In a Defense.gov article, I read
a quote from your Battalion Commander:
“You are the reason for this battalion’s success,
and for that I thank you.” He presented brass belt buckles
to your group of Eagles: “Other soldiers will ask you
where you earned it.”

On the buckle,
“203rd Brigade Support Battalion,
Eagle Challenge,
Support and Defend,
3rd Infantry Division”
wraps around an eagle’s head.

One of your fellow Eagles said,
“For a few moments today, I forgot
I was in Iraq.” One of the contest’s requirements
was maintaining a positive attitude.

To the children at the Club,
you read What Was I Scared Of.
You wrote, “I asked the kids to listen to the rhythm of the story,
and I told them it was trochaic tetrameter.
Three kids who stood out
because of their attitudes. I sat down
and talked about their disruptive behavior’s
effect on others. One boy asked about my belt buckle.
I told him about the Eagles—how it pays
to remain positive and focused
as he moves through life.”

With “Everyone’s small contribution
adds up to a big impact,”
you closed the paper.

Dr. Elizabeth Wurz is an Assistant Professor of English at the College of Coastal Georgia, where several of her students serve, or have served, in the military. Her spouse, siblings, parent, and grandparent are veterans. Her poems have appeared in Crazyhorse, Rattle, the Southeast Review, the GSU Review, and the GLR Worldwide.

Mar 31

The Babaji Wheelbarrow

by James Clark

It was a dry, dusty day when I saw the wheelbarrow, with long handles made of dark wood.

The wheel is struggling as it carries its burden, but it manages the job that it should. The man pushing appears to be crying, his eyes all puffy and red. It’s time to move on, but I wait, I wait for him to reach me instead. The wheelbarrow has a dark green cover, such a sickly, metallic sweet smell underneath, such a heavy lump in my throat, “don’t lift the cover!” but regardless, I pull it back to see.

The first thing to strike me, such a tiny hand, tiny fingers all bent into a fist, and an inch below there in my big gloved palm, the smallest most delicate wrist. Her face is held together by bright orange thread, her eyes are searching the stars. Her crown should still be there, on that beautiful head, where she lays crumpled up inside this fine cart. I put back the cover, swallow hard and just stand there, my head, Jesus Christ I can’t think, my pounding heart tearing itself apart inside my trained body, at this beautiful little angel in pink.

Her father, his eyes screaming toward me sobs gently, silent rage and yet deafening shock. Why can’t I bring myself to look into this man’s eyes, oh Lord, grant me some breath that I may talk. To say sorry, to ask why, to just speak in his tongue, to show him that I really care. I realise that I could never find words, I’ve no such tragedy to compare.

I walked away from the blue wheelbarrow, thinking that I could leave it behind. But every night as my daughter hugged me, that wheelbarrow crashed into my mind. Whenever she cried my stomach went tight, when she laughed those dark clouds disappeared, whenever she told me she loved me, I knew that I had nothing to fear, but yet so much. The wheelbarrow changed me forever, drank me to illness, and brought my whole life to the edge. I couldn’t switch off from that sweet smell, and I couldn’t explain that to friends.

I will never forget, such a small wrist in my hand, such beautiful soft lips kissing the sky. Such a pretty pink little dress, though stained red with blood, those clear and lifeless brown eyes. I wish that I had asked for her name, what to call that three year old victim of war, so small and so beautiful with those innocent eyes, my body aches that I can’t wish so any more.

If I could explain to people my demons, in one clear moment to make them understand. I’d draw that old wheelbarrow with the green cover, and that sweet delicate wrist in my hand. Two days after the wheelbarrow, I became a Father to my comfort for the rest of my life I will know. No matter how often the wheelbarrow returns, I have my daughter, here for me to hold.

It was a dry, dusty day when I saw the wheelbarrow.

James Clark is a Scottish Veteran of Afghanistan who served there in both 2009 and 2011 as a Reconnaissance operator and heavy weapons specialist. He was medically discharged with PTSD in 2013 and now volunteers as a Youth Mentor in Glasgow alongside his work as an Apprentice Gas Technician. His poetry is written as a way to communicate his experiences and to raise the awareness of conflict and its effect on soldiers.

Mar 28

welcome to the grenade range

by Anna Weaver

You are about to be handed a dangerous explosive.
You will follow all my commands.
(instruction given by range cadre upon issuing live grenades
to U.S. Army basic trainees)

I can’t tell you what it looks like
because they don’t let you watch
lookers get pushed down for their own good
but you want to feel it so think of thunder
think earthquake
think a live volcano in your hand
of course you’re nervous
it’s one shot one kill
what kind of grip do you have, private?
a death grip, sergeant, a death grip
change your grip and you’re a cooker
the grenade is cooking
counting down
seconds are passing
maybe your last
prepare to throw
throw
to Beruit and Bosnia
where the eyes of babushkas
watch from the pockmarked concrete
of the bunker you’re crouching in
blown to gaping
blown to numb
numb like shock
numb like a rock to your skull
now you’re crying like
a baby wakened by thunder
and you don’t know why
but it’s somewhere in Beruit
because of Beruit
because a crevice in your earthworks
rumbled open after the shockwave
moved through your bones
and now you are the bunker
huddled under a sulfur cloud and sinking
into the dirt
against the wall
hoping the wall will hold

Raised in Oklahoma, Anna Weaver served eight years as a parachute rigger in the U.S. Army Reserve. She writes about big sky, old boyfriends, and occasionally her time in service, which fell between Gulf Wars. Currently living in North Carolina with her two daughters, she has performed at open mic nights in Raleigh, Winston-Salem, Chicago, Atlanta, Nashville, and Savannah.

Mar 24

PTSD

by Charles F. Thielman

blue palms beating on the skins of city hives.
He twitches inside a firefight broadcast live

from the rainforests of his subconscious,
barking orders in his sleep. Snipered awake,
he crouches in double shadow between bed and wall.

He breathes deeply in, then out, slow, steady.
Fingering his imagination’s trigger, he dissolves
night-clad demons, then visualizes

a sun-warmed hamlet, teenagers flirting
and day-dreaming, three clean white blouses
drying in a light-filled breeze.

Preparing for a Friday at work,
he stretches six foot of solo in a doorway,
then readies himself in a mirror.

His true eyes opening without faith
in the ruins, apartment air striated
by the echoes of a lover’s last words,

needs clawing out of the grave
of one dream. Guttered candle
in a can at the curb.

Born and raised in Charleston, S.C., Charles Thielman moved to Chicago, was educated at red-bricked universities and on city streets. He worked at a Tripler Medical Center outpatient clinic helping wounded veterans. He is good friends with 2 Vietnam veterans, and his father spoke closely of leading the first Army Corps of Engineers company into Nagasaki after Japan’s surrender. Thielman is a loving grandfather for five free spirits!

Mar 19

1 Comment

PTSD

by Jon Turner

the fibers torn
are memories of gun battle
where bullets scream Allah
and the deafening song of explosions
dance where human flesh
once stood
There have been nightmares
that had made more sense, but
when dreams are reality
and clarity is non-apparent,
the gunpowder
sacred to our veins
is by all means the means of expression
when true meaning is burnt crisp, and
the screams fending for themselves
are still alone
in the desert

Jon Turner has used poetry and other forms of creative expression to understand his wartime experience in Iraq. He served two tours of duty in Iraq as an infantryman with the marines, as well as a humanitarian mission in Haiti in 2004. Currently Jon lives in Vermont with his family, working to build sustainable food operations with local farmers while further transcribing his memories with veterans.

Mar 14

Eternity

by Tessa Poppe

wrestle me upward
steal my dreams,
carry me into the vast,
Eternity.

bear my naked soul, and
sing me the gentler words
so I may forget my

Flesh,

vomit the linked chains,
restricting all,
The Everything.

effortless work, to die
to leave behind.
in yesterday lies
everything, untouched
undone, un.

never to see your face,
child, creation of my soul,
to be.
regretting, I buried you
in Selflessness and Ambition.

so I die with a crevice
in me,
and clear vision of that
rip in the sky.

all my worlds together,
loveless all the same,
barely a whisper now
the drowning
beat of the Drum

and slowly,
I see it,

Beautiful,

​​​End.

Tessa Poppe served in Iraq and Afghanistan as an MP with the Iowa National Guard. She is a native of the Midwest and a graduate of the University of Iowa, but currently lives in Virginia where she is attending graduate school. Tessa mainly writes short stories, flash fiction, and poetry.

Mar 7

Next Last

by David Shank

Bending down,
I kissed his forehead.
His face,
a deserted landscape,
withered and worn

His body,
once upright and strong,
lies frail
with a marionette’s
physique.

Seemed a sudden thing.
Once steadfast,
now stifled,
with staring eyes
he waits.

The gathering, too,
wait,
precarious,
for Earth’s next
pitiless turn.

Dave Shank, who graduated from the University of Nevada with
a music degree in Theory and Composition, worked for 40 years
as a professional musician(see: www.daveshankmusic.com).
Before entering school he served in the United States Air Force, 6910th Radio Group Mobile, in Wiesbaden, Germany.
Inspired by a colleague, Tim Mclafferty, a fine drummer and
published poet, Dave began writing seriously only this year
but instantly found a new passion for another form of artistic
expression. He can be found on FaceBook and Twitter(@daveshankmusic).

Mar 3

That Kid

by Alan Tessaro

My brother’s kid
tells stupid jokes,
but when
you’re ten or eleven stupid
jokes are funny.

He plays soccer,
just like I bet
you do,
and teases girls because
that’s funny too,

to a kid ten or eleven.
He ain’t perfect, but
I guess
no kid is. I love
that kid. He has

so much potential,
like I bet you do.
But you,
kid, you got me
pointing my weapon

right at our soul.

Alan Tessaro is retired USAF and now teaches English at Spartanburg Community College, Spartanburg, SC.

« Older Entries
Newer Entries »