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Posts from the ‘Poetry’ Category

Nov 14

Meat grinders

by David S. Pointer

It seemed I’d traded enlistment in
USMC to CMSU Sociology Dept.

yet found myself chest deep inside
ship-to-shore-collegiality bubbles
thinking more about Navaho Code
Talkers Bougainville, Guadalcanal

than Marx, Weber, and Durkheimian
suicide as next generation canvas-oid
stretchers levitated above my ongoing
war dreams: struggling, mountain tips,

sand, and the mind’s interior lagoons
of inky elevated international literature

David S. Pointer served in the Marine military police from 1980-1984. He has recent publications in Proud to Be: Writing by American Warriors, Stone Canoe, Tales of the Combat Zone and elsewhere. His new poetry book Oncoming Crime Facts is sold through http://www.lulu.com.

Nov 5

After Viewing “TIME, A Decade of War in Iraq: The Images That Moved Them Most”

by Anthony Moll

What do we name our defeat
in view of captured visions radiating
beneath a decade of debris?

In Sadr City, Rena slumps with dejection
after losing leg and child to shelling.
What do we name our defeat?

Bridges cross black water where defiled
bodies pose burnt and hanging
beneath a decade of debris.

The young widow lies with the deceased
in a meadow of white grave markers weeping.
What do we name our defeat?

A star-spangled rag decorates
the stone face of an autocrat watching
beneath a decade of debris.

When asked to baptize, we will describe
Old Glory printed on prosthetic limbs saluting.
What do we name our defeat
beneath a decade of debris?

Anthony Moll is a Californian expatriate living in Baltimore. His work has recently been published in Seltzer Zine, Gertrude Journal and Baltimore Fishbowl. Anthony escaped both military service (he was a military working dog handler in the Army) and the D.C. non-profit scene to pursue an MFA with the University of Baltimore.

Nov 1

The Drive Thru

by Marykay Kowalski

He watches me circle around to the entrance. Does he see it?
The title, ashamed, his hat, my sticker
Is he a vet? an addict? a beggar?
He rolls to the “walk-up” window. I drive my truck
He sees it, does he know.
He does, He knows.
Will he say something? Should I?
What if it was a car accident, a work thing?
It wasn’t, I know.
I smile and he smiles back, I drive away and he salutes.

Marykay Kowalski served in the peacetime Army. She comes from a large family – more than half of her siblings have served or are currently serving our country, either on active duty or as a military spouse. This poem was inspired by a Vietnam veteran who resides in Hamilton, Ohio.

Oct 27

When We’re Left Behind

by Shaun Fletcher

We always hope for more than a folded flag.
I close my eyes and find Justin blackened on rocks,
days dry and fractioned.

Some nights I find him in brush, a wince
tattooed on his face with one-hundred-fifty grains
filled with uniform blue ink.

I look for a dog tag, a smart mouth, a white bandana
matching the one I carry in my back
pocket, wrapped around shrapnel.

One night I found Justin in a dawn-lit bog.
My youngest sister kept my face from mud,
stitching her legs on my chest to walk me home.

If only he’d walk in with medals all over his chest
with the one arm hand-shake-hug of brothers –
medals with a true “d” and not the Jersey accent “t”.

We meet in his friend’s house, a surprise
visit for his birthday by all his brothers. Blood
accounts only one drop of this ocean.

The times I don’t find him, I brew coffee
percolated in our grandmother’s hands. We eat from her
living room. All of his pictures burst.

Justin and I in matching prom suits on prom night.
The glass spiders and smokes.
Our smiles eaten by sleep.

Fletcher is a North Jersey poet, science teacher, motorcycle tourist, and a proud Air Force brother (cousin by blood, brother by experience). His work often attempts to understand the connections and distance between people using science, the mind, and the road as common mediums.

Oct 15

My Daddy

by Jeanette Barszewski

My Daddy was a bald, smiling baby in a little lacy dress.

My Daddy was forced to wear old lady shoes to school during the Depression.

My Daddy was a year ahead of Mom at Sacred Heart School and was 6’2” in the
eighth grade.

My mentally-ill Grandma told me that a talent scout wanted Daddy to sign a singing
contract after he overheard him in the bathtub crooning quite beautifully.

My Grandpa left my Grandma alone with five kids when my daddy was sixteen.

My Daddy was expelled from Aquinas Institute for Boys.

My Daddy joined the Coast Guard at seventeen.  He would get plowed on leave and
would run off for miles down dark country roads not knowing why he was running.

My Daddy was a Maryknoll brother for a while.  We have a picture of him in long black
robes like a priest’s.

My Daddy joined the army after that.  He would go to the enlisted men’s canteen on
Friday nights.  Once he woke up in the middle of a cornfield miles from anywhere
not remembering anything after his first beer.

My Daddy was ashamed of not seeing combat in Korea.   He was learning to speak the
language when stationed there.

My Daddy was razzed by the other soldiers for not using prostitutes in Seoul.

Jeanette Barszewski is a writer of poetry, memoir and some fiction when she can find some time out from being a wife and mother in Hamilton, NJ. She is the daughter of SSgt. John L. Coon who was killed in action in Quang Tri, Vietnam in 1968.

Oct 12

ennead: To Lay Down a Prayer in Nine Parts

by Imani Sims

There are times when conversation
gnaws at tissue wrapped acid

It is well.

in an effort to arrest
joy’s soft shimmer magnificence.

It, is well.

no conversation is too large
to grow through like sequoia root to branch.

It is wEll.

She is the soft lens mirror
cradling the stitched together pieces

Itiswell.

in her hands I unfold safely
perfumed blossom of plump brilliance

It is well.

sweet abandon to tender palm–
love adorned eyes.

It is well.

May we find the chuckle
of fourth center deep joy.

We are well.

May liberation spread wings against
our ribs: a pulling toward adventure.

We are well.

May the purist nectar spring from
lips to baptize with cherished intent.

We are well.

Imani Sims is the granddaughter of a United States Army Veteran and a United States Navy Veteran. She has borne witness to their stories and continues to use those stories to influence her work. She is also a performance poet and educator.

Sep 28

Back from Iraq 4/04

by Carl Palmer

my son just got back
from his second tour in Iraq

no ticker-tape parade
no welcome home celebration no media coverage

“Good Morning, America” didn’t spoil breakfast with the newscast
no one should see the caskets
the 23 flag draped caskets

they did show pictures of prisoner abuse that day
and the next

my son just got back
from his second tour in Iraq Read more

Sep 10

Welcome

by Neil Leinwohl

We came aboard.
One by one.
Smelling of canvas and gun oil.
Following the guidon.
The numbered cloth we belonged too.
Just like in the movies.
This would be the newsreel insert.
To some Hollywood version of our lives.
The lucky would be surprised someday.
“Hey that’s me!”
The rest of the movie would be ruined.
Aboard the ark we stowed our past.
And practiced not writing letters.
The rolling water reminded us we were soldiers.
For 21 days we sharpened knives.
And threw up on the fish.
At Subic Bay we ate like prisoners condemned to death.
Which some were.
The next morning we found out what hot is.
And marched across a beach at port arms.
We saw our first helicopter crash.
And a woman eat the biggest bug in the world.
We drew real 5.56.
Then went to sleep until the mortar attack.
We woke.
Hid for a while.
Discussed close calls.
And went back to sleep.
Then the Sandman whispered a secret.
Gentleman welcome to the rest of your life.

Neil Leinwohl served as a photographer in Viet Nam with the 34th Engineer BN. and as a photographer with the 82nd Airborne at Fort Bragg. He is currently a Creative Director of a New York advertising agency. He is also an artist and was represented at the VAP Pentagon Exhibition in July.

Sep 8

An Operator

by Ford Sypher

We were the green eyes
With black rifles
That moved so silently
Through the night

You would not hear us
Until the breach
You would not hear us
Until we reached
To pull off your sheets
And rip you from your sleep

Our world was the night
We were gone before the dawn
Before the light

We took Crowes
Counted Feathers
And Chargers alike
Left bodies
But made sure the kids
Had glow-stix to play with at night

The women would cry
The men no different
The small children amazed
Trembled indifferent?

Their eyes the most piercing
Knowing our crimes
And soon recognizing in time
That it was we
The “Dirty Unit”
That had taken their Fathers
Their Brothers
And all in their prime

Our trips ran together
One place than another
The missions the same
Dispatch him
Then his brother

Some day we’ll come home
Our bodies old and broken
Our youth long gone
Our stories not to be spoken

Ford Sypher is a former Army Ranger Team Leader with the 3/75 RGR RGT. While serving Ford deployed five times in support of the Global War on Terror, with three deployments to Iraq and two to Afghanistan, from 2006-2010. Ford’s passion is poetry and learning how to better express emotion through the arts.

Aug 23

Going

by William Adler

(2004 Deployment to Iraq)

The familiar, garments
of our separation.
This ritual repeated-
Pain is wrapped
in our comfortable moments.
The moments we share surface
in separation

Revisit our corrupted ideas
of legacy and meaning.
Deeply held
black-clad dreams
haunt our future again
Our separateness, is the real currency,
and the mark of history on our hearts.

We will put on the garments
of our separation.
Familiar and loathed.
There in our parting
A hope
A renewal of joy
When we will be together
Again.

I’m minutes- closer than I was.
This moment gone by- closer still.

William Adler is originally from Marshfield, Massachusetts. He chose a career of soldiering after college graduation but someday hopes to return to the Northeast to teach. He currently serves on active duty in Fort Irwin, California. He has served in Bosnia, Kosovo, Iraq, and most recently, Afghanistan.

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