Posts from the ‘Poetry’ Category

The Name of the Dragon

by George Converse

Fear is not an imagined thing,
it’s a Dragon that never dies;
a terror in a cave, in us within,
that darkly awaiting, lies.

Those who would choose the way of the sword
must learn the name of the Beast;
to conquer its soul and challenge its word,
and thus, its power to cease.

The name of the Dragon is not of Death,
tho’ some would have it seem;
nor of Pain, nor Grief, nor Peace bereft,
abandoned in tortured dreams.

There is no face to this Serpent cold,
and no manner of common strike;
and even the bravest of warriors bold,
has nightmared this lonely fight.

The Drakon strikes not with a rush,
but slinks in, with the door even shut;
not with fire, nor roar from a brimstone gush,
but in the sunken fall of the gut.

The Drache comes in the light of day, as well as in the dark.
It searches out lives of blissful ease,
leaving its name in an image stark,
of a man bent low at the knees.

The name of the Dragon is not as Smaug,
nor as a monster in Beowulf’s soul;
but, it’s spoke in the heart, in the fear of the fog,
when each of us loses control.

The name of the DDraig is a fearsome one,
and to slay it requires a key;
to face the Kraken, and not turn and run,
learn that the name of the Dragon is Me.

George Converse is a retired U.S. Marine. He and his wife, Mary Ann, live in North Carolina.

Salute

by Kirsten Trump

Finished college and got my rank.
Fortune’s friend—who to thank?
Walking through the hallowed halls,
Heavy burdens hold up these walls.
Wounded warrior—enlisted man–
I know you’d salute me if you can
It’s just that now—nothing is there,
Where your fingers once touched the air.
I know you’d stand to watch me pass,
If you had feet to touch the grass.
Brave young soldier—gave life and limb.
I really should be saluting him.

Kirsten Trump has a background in theater as an actor and director, and is a voice, speech and dialect coach and voiceover artist. She directs, coaches and teaches in the Division of Theatre at Shenandoah University. She is also an avid lover of poetry and a published lyricist, and works with her partner on his musical projects.

All the Places I’ve Laid My Head

by Claire Hersom

streams with summer rain
back seat window panes

goose filled pillows, feathers galore
pocketbooks on airport floors

Grampie’s woolen coat
crook of an arm on a desk top

Queen Ann Lace, soft and sweet
our baby’s soft, newborn cheek

the family dog, warm and breathing
the hammock in a summer’s breeze

the cramped back seat of your brother’s Jeep
lake docks that lulled us to sleep

your stomach, leg, breast
your picture atop the cedar chest

clean sheets just off the line,
the American flag after you died.

Claire Hersom is the middle daughter of Norman L. Hersom, who served in WWII in France with the 709th Motorcycle Police Battalion. She is a published poet with three books, the latest called Drowning: A Poetic Memoir.

Ships

by Garland Davis

let old broken ships
rusty and discarded

enjoy the quiet deep
let them lie, sleep

under the sea
shrouded in darkness

while the ravages of storm
roll and turmoil above

in this watery grave
among the hulks of others

Garland Davis entered the Navy at the age of seventeen in 1961. He served during the entire Viet Nam conflict and retired in 1990 at the grade of Chief Petty Officer. Now retired from self-employment in Honolulu, Hawaii, he spends his time writing and conversing with old shipmates via the Internet.

Veterans’ Day 2014

By Thomas Rieley

A lot of bother about flows of funds…
Inalienable rights granted by the creator…
Those who would tax without representation
Shall taste the metal of men who would be free
So now what do we do with the veterans?

Is democracy a fluke?
Or does John Bull loose his grip?
Those who would put genie-o-the-bottle back
Shall taste the metal of the free and the brave
So now what do we do with the veterans?

More conflicts in economics…
And no more west to absorb the shocks…
Those who question will that nation long endure
Shall taste the metal
So now what do we do with the veterans?

Remember the Maine…
The Philippines free…
So now what do we do with the veterans?

The Marne; Verdun; Flanders Field
The Great war; a generation warred out…
So now what do we do with the veterans?

Reprise with bigger guns
And biggest ones for the land of the rising sun
The showpiece for the greatest generation…
And what do we do with the veterans?

The forgotten wars
The distinction between those who do
And those who do not serve…
At our peril we fail to provide
For something to do for our veterans

The wrong types making loose
And our liberties under attack…
Rogue nations beyond international norms
Shall taste the metal of enduring freedom
So now what do we do with the veterans?

Thomas Rieley was a naval cryptologist from 1983 to 1991. He served at Diego Garcia and at Misawa Air Base and deployed with elements of the Seventh Fleet.

Edification

By Reid Kincaid

Above you scattered stars
still shimmering in the day’s heat;
haunting you.
small wet globes of sweat
rocked off in small showers
with each concussion
that warmed you.

what did you remember?
lying there?
what memories intruding
on your quiescence?

above you
in flaming indigo
and orange bravery,
clutching darkness
like a shield,
we look into your eyes
mouthing silence
into your shrinking self.

your grimace flickers
like a smile,
your gurgling repose
a silence much finer
without us.

Reid Kincaid is a Physician Assistant in rural Maine and a veteran of Operation Iraqi Freedom II, where he was the battalion medical officer for the 411th Combat Engineers. He writes poetry, fiction and nonfiction. He is busily semi-retired and working on an MPH in Humanitarian Relief.

Search for Meaning

by John Rodriguez

“I know myself,” he cried, “but that is all —”
This Side of Paradise

Do my actions make me right?
No god to guide and shelter me,
I strain, striving towards the light.

Kill and maim men through my sight,
inhuman targets fall, I feel recoil and glee.
Do my actions make me right?

In the chaos and dark pitch of the night,
choices made not thinking first of me,
I strain, striving towards the light.

Fought, tried to shelter with all my might,
but still led friends to their cemetery,
do my actions make me right?

Living well not death the bigger fright,
am I proud of the reflection I see
strain, striving towards the light?

I put my soul into the futile fight,
a struggle we lost over that damn valley.
Yet my actions make me right,
I strain, striving towards the light.

John Rodriguez was an infantry officer in the U.S. Army from 2006 to 2012. He served in Afghanistan as a Rifle Platoon Leader and Rifle Company Executive Officer in Kunar Province from 2008 to 2009.

Spent

by Matthew Angelicola

We are the turnstiles; used by everyone that touches us
We’re an afterthought to hips and thighs
Crossed through too many times
No longer useful, we’re sent to be scrapped

We are the tires; used until our tread is worn
We helplessly hemorrhage air
Empty and deformed
No longer useful, we’re heaped into piles to be burned

We are the puppets; threads pulled out from the seams
We’re worn thin where others have made us move
Faded and forgotten
No longer useful, we’re thrown into a drawer

We are the charcoal; used until every bit of our essence is spent
We lay ebbing heat, greying from an unrelenting flame
Burned out, we crumble at the slightest touch
No longer useful, we’re swept hastily into a plastic bag

We are the lost souls of the war
We’re somewhere between scared and shaky
Decorated and hollowed out
No longer useful, we slip through the cracks

Pieces

by Jamie Dement

As the day swells on
waves of thunder and pain
roll through my heart
dragging me under
the riptide of darkness.
Dreams shatter
Millions of pieces
of hope
gone

Voices rage in my head
my heart
neither play nice
with the other
bicker and banter
yelling
screaming
tearing at the walls
punching and lashing
spitting

No longer can I see
those millions of pieces
lying at my feet
swallowed in the abyss
of blackened fear
loneliness
doubt

The murky waves
crash around my feet
beckoning me to join
its loving warmth
its putrid promises
linger
tempt

Somewhere in the tunnel
where pitch meets black
a glimmer dances
on ebony tears
twirling closer
tugging
grasping

As the day dies
Bleak lies beside me
on the shimmering shore
we bathe in the obsidian glow
of shattered dreams
Millions of pieces
of hope
stir

Jamie Dement works as an IT Security Consultant for HP on a military contract. She lives in Florida with her husband, son, and 3 cats. She has been a caregiver for her Army vet for the past 13 years but only recently opened up and admitted her struggles and feelings in an attempt to heal emotionally. Now she uses her writing and her own experiences to help other spouses and caregivers. You can read more on her blog at: http://caringforaveteran.wordpress.com.

The Day Room at Night: Haiku

By Susan Farese

Always on night shift
Out of bed to the day room…
Anxiety plus.

So I challenged them!
Put away that cigarette
And just chat with me.

Stories would abound
Sometimes, even tears would flow.
Cathartic rivers.

You wouldn’t believe
the magnitude, their missions
Poignant and heartfelt.

That was the 80’s
Before the world changed that day
September Eleventh.

Imagine, right now
Post-traumatic stress endured
And shared with no one.

So don’t be afraid
To reach out to a veteran
Pretend it’s night shift.

Susan Farese, MSN, RN, is president of SJF Communications, San Diego, which provides marketing/public relations, writing, social media, speaking and Legal Nurse Consulting services. Susan served in both the U.S. Navy and U.S. Army Nurse Corps, attaining the rank of Major. She is the author of the book Poetic Expressions in Nursing…Sharing the Caring (1993) as well as many articles. She is Director of Marketing and PR at San Diego Musical Theatre and is a member of SAG-AFTRA.