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Posts from the ‘Poetry’ Category

Where

by John Mansfield

Where did he go? He’s someone you know.
You saw him on TV, the Walter Cronkite show.

You know who I mean, there’s a rifle in his hand, the man dressed in green, in a far away land.

He stands in the mud, a man still so bold, covered with blood with eyes o’ so old.

He went back to school wanted something to show, though cursed and called fool, he’d learned, don’t you know.

He’s the lawyer, the doctor, the baker, the cook. He’s unemployed, a farmer, he’s writing a book.

He’s married; he’s single, divorced, widowed or alone. He holds on to his pride, that’s what helped bring him home.

Where did he go? He’s someone you know.
You saw him on TV, the Walter Cronkite show.

He works every day, has a family, a place. He’s part of our world yet needs his own space.

For sometimes he stands all alone feeling down. Goes off by himself, he smiles then he frowns.

Remembers those days when he served us with pride, thinks of friends far away, those who fought by his side.

Yes he served us with pride though desperate with fear, tears flood to his eyes for buddies not here.

Where did he go? He’s someone you know.
You saw him on TV, the Walter Cronkite show

He is all but forgotten by all but a few. He has no regrets for what he chose to do.

He’s an old soldier now, who once long ago lived up to his vows, while others said no.

Where did he go?
Why, nowhere, you see.  He is inside of you, he’s inside of me.

John L. Mansfield served as a Mortar & Rifle Platoon Leader with 4-31 Infantry, the 196th BDE in Vietnam. He stayed in the Army Guard & Army Reserve and retired with over 30 years of service. He has published two articles on leadership: “Why Not It Is Your Report Card” & “Setting Headspace & Timing in Junior Leaders”, both in National Guard magazine. A book about his Vietnam experiences titled Twenty Days in May, Vietnam 1968 was published in 2008. He and his wife Sandy, who live in Iowa, celebrated 45 years of marriage in May and stay busy with their 5 grandchildren.

Wake

by Edison Jennings

1983, Mediterranean/North Africa Deployment

Gibraltar looked like a leftover piece of a tectonic puzzle, divinely abandoned
when continents parted and oceans decanted on African Eden.

The fat sun went down, a sickle moon rose, and Venus sat pretty on the thin lunar cusp
while the USS Eisenhower headed for home, six sailors and airmen lost in the wake.

We tried to remember where we were going and where we had gone,
what circles sailed and what vectors flown, but the wind spoke in tongues

and none of us heard the howling chorus of Barbary apes that sang our epode:
Africa burning, bodies unburied, the bereaved in the ruins biding their time.

Edison Jennings enlisted in the Navy in 1981 and separated with an honorable discharge as an AW1 in 1994. Afterwards, he went to graduate school and now serves on the faculty of Virginia Intermont College. His poem “Wake” is a slightly fictional remembrance of a 1983 Mediterranean cruise aboard USS EISENHOWER (CVN 69). His poetry has appeared in a variety of journals and anthologies. His chapbook Reckoning was published by Jacar Press in November, 2013 (http://www.jacarpress.com/books/).

Untitled

by Jennifer Callahan

Silence fills my soul like water filling an empty pitcher
Hearts fall one by one like dominoes
People racing to the paved road and not taking the time
To admire the rocky one
Life filling in every crevice on Earth
Only to find it’s too crowded
Everywhere you turn
Monsters, Angels
Too much to bear for a simple mind
Such as mine
Hate, Love, right, wrong
Every opposite possessing their own meaning
But what meaning?
I have no understandings of these words
Simplicity is my life
I wish
Since it’s so complex
I can only dream about the pitcher full

Jennifer Callahan Served in the US Army from 1996-2007. She lives in Vermont with her husband and four children, where she is a Veterans Advocate and VFW Post Service Officer. She dedicates her time helping other Veterans.

Someone Giggled

by Aaron Johnson

Just because you were awoken one morning, leaning toward a discovery, somehow, that it now seems better. How 24 hours in a day had become some wine and nicotine Neverland, no longer enough. It is how these shortening days keep ending for you, under a moon-lit sky not wide enough to stop the stars from painting her name. How life’s design intrinsically knew to somehow, amend and darn and strike whole drifting broken souls?

Another turn of fair Gaia reawakes you as a dandelion seed in the swirling storm of a dynamically expanding universe you call home. You hear it’s laughter around you. It giggled this someone’s name to you when you were truly broken. It is how some traveler spirit found you. Does it make you live stronger, bolder, better or more fit to be once again counted alive among the living?

Now and again, between morning and twilight’s touch, life’s little simplicity, again and again, does so strive to become everything anew. Even as time seams itself, life swirls out of control from a spinning wheel offering a lengthening thread. Take heed to seek solace among the colorfully woven thread, blending everything raw and naked and course and beautiful as a tapestry all your own.

Alacrity and life have bumped alongside each other down this speedway, like two hi octane formula cars vying on some cosmic track. Where once they sped past each other, alacrity and life as two, become one. Everywhere are felt these mighty engines turning and tuning and blending the mind’s straying emotions. It happened by and by over time, with her. It’s how intelligence feels. For you, it’s time to giggle on becoming whole.

Aaron Johnson needed his parents to sign a waiver to join the Army Reserve at 17. He became a 91 bravo combat medic in the summer of his 11th grade year, followed by Airborne School during 12th grade. He later joined the full time Navy, winding down his enlistment during the Persian Gulf War. Some years later when OIF/OEF was on, he went to both conflicts (2008 – 2010) as a contractor, flying in and out of both war zones the equivalent of 6 times around the globe.

Dawn Patrol

by Randy Brown

there is no happiness beyond
highway speeds and distant static,
armed only with a bullet full of coffee
and a radio hungry for daytime power.

keep alert for four-legged ghosts
that graze across the dark winter fields,
while dreams of trees and barns run black
against the coming civil twilight.

Infantry blue and blaze of orange Signal:
the start of the day before the day,
before the weekend starts …
before the first formation …

and the call to attention.

In 2010, Randy Brown was preparing for deployment to Eastern Afghanistan as a member of the Iowa Army National Guard’s 2nd Brigade Combat Team, 34th Infantry ‘Red Bull’ Division. After he dropped off the deployment list, he retired with 20 years of military service. He then went to Afghanistan anyway, embedding with Iowa’s Red Bull units as a civilian journalist in May-June 2011. A freelance writer in central Iowa, Brown blogs at: http://www.redbullrising.com.

Where Is the Inside of This Out of Country Absence

by Jacey Blue Renner

Today begins just like the rest: poached
dawn, winter sun glaze, but our branches
aren’t tangled up in do. Last names side-
saddle our tongues, while we wait
morning hatchling, feathering first
before the day crackles with bright yolk.

A war fades into the left leg pocket
of my worn. Nomex seams hold onto an M9
folded (pocket square), two chopsticks
for eating rice on the run. Strike plates
shield from the unfriendlies, three apples
in the ruck in case I run out of bullets.

Today ends. With steak, waiting on Sunday
to bow out, give Monday room to breathe.
Gristle and spice leave me ready for home,
for the triangle of beauty marks across her.

Her curls fret in the wind, in the way I say: soon.

Jacey Blue Renner holds an MFA from Lesley University. A recipient of the Harwood Emerging Artist Fund’s Marion & Kathryn Crissey Award, her poetry has been published in the anthology Looking Back to Place, and by Connotation Press, Brink Magazine, and Porchlight, among others. Most recently, you can find her poetry as part of the Tupelo Press 30/30 Project & included in two forthcoming anthologies: one published by Tupelo Press, the other, a collection of ekphrastic poetry drawn from photography of the Iraq War. Her first collection will explore the importance of the poetic perspective during war times.

Pride

by Christopher Ryan

As I lay myself down to rest
It seems like eternity, but minutes at best

My sleep is shallow and next to none
But I am a “Father, Brother and Son”
And a “Combat Infantryman” with a gun

We enter our sector like so many times before
And live the flashes, sounds and smells of war

As my body begins to tremble out of control
My fear boils over from deep inside my soul

With nowhere to run and nowhere to hide
We move forward with our “Blue Infantry Pride.”

Christopher G. Ryan joined the Army after graduating from High School in 1988. He served 12 years as an Army infantryman and has deployed overseas for training, served in Desert Shield/Desert Storm, and concluded his military career after serving his second tour in Iraq with the historical unit “The Fighting 69th” (1st/69th Infantry) during Operation Iraqi Freedom III. He likes to spend time with his family, his girlfriend and her two children and his friends. He is also the proud father of a son who is attending college. He currently resides in his hometown of Buffalo, New York and serves his community as a Police Officer.

We Mighty Warriors

by James Loomis

My days as a mighty warrior
Were told to never end
Once a Marine Always a Marine
It’s your life, your code

The enemy is clear
Well sort of….
Killing the enemy in war
It’s only one squeeze away.

Those Mighty warrior days have gone
Once a person they called “Bull”
Over two hundred and forty pounds
The Animal Mother they wanted.

Now the Bull is on a budget
A mighty warrior’s meal
Reduced to Top Ramen and PBJs
Though we fight on.

Fake offers and interviews
Broken promises and hunger
The world we once walked
As Mighty Warriors
The proud and few.

Now almost under two hundred pounds
The once spearheaded Bull
The one who put himself in front of the weak
Is frail, broken

We Mighty Warriors fight now to survive
Then our day comes.
11th day of the 11th month
Free meals for those Warriors.

The Mighty Warrior spends hours
Hunting his food
From place to place armed
With a paper saying he served.

Served as a Mighty Warrior, now to feast
His one day, through bloodshot eyes.
Over tight belt to hold pants too big.
His shameful glare at the mirror
The Mighty Warriors count
364 days till their next feast.

James Loomis never saw anything in this world that made more sense than the Marine Corps at a time of war. He served two tours in Iraq as an infantry machine gunner from 2005-2007; the first lasted nine months and the second eight. He wrote “We Mighty Warriors” about his own change from Marine to civilian in August 2008, which led him to years of unemployment and poverty.

Flight Deck Mornings

by David Worden

​Flight Deck Mornings

​Sitting on the deck you feel the coldness of the steel
​Yet far beneath the steel emits a radiant heat
​Sitting there tired and beat, sad of life and full of pride
​Observe the sun as it sets on high.

​Water bluer then any color in a crayon box
Reminders of a man and his blue ox
Skin of the ship is gray, the color of a sad and dismal day
We call the color haze-gray and underway.

You wear your protective clothes, vest, gloves, goggles, cranial,
And let not forget Mickey Mouse ears.
Ears to protect you so you can hear.
​Sounds of engines, jets, catapults and steams escaping the bowels of the ship
​Lest not forgets the people hollering, reminding us to slow down so we don’t trip
Bells, whistles, horns and such
Then there are the speakers that tell us much.

​As planes, jets and helicopters engines turn you feel the burn
​The burn is in many places you see, there’s the fire that burns in me,
​The one to join them in that place on high, it is the one that makes me sigh
​Then the burn from the heat, heat as intense as any desert can be
​The deck hard beneath your feet makes your legs strong and lean
​Keeping your head on a swivel makes all of your senses keen.

Taste the salt in the air as it sticks to your face
You get the burning sensation in that awkward place.
There is a thickness in the air, one that you taste as you breathe
It is the fuel from the jets, planes, tractors and ship that you breathe
Chewing on the air as you inhale
Watching your breath as you exhale.

Your nose hairs twinge with a scent of the exhaust
These are scents that seem to be lost
​The smell of bacon comes from below
​A wonderful smell erodes
​Breakfast is done or so it would seem
​Or is this yet another one of my dreams

​Then a sound comes over the five-MC
And it is time for me to move, to work, to run
For I am a flight deck sailor and to me this is fun
This is the truest form of living life for me.

David Worden served in the both the U.S. Army (Infantry) and Navy (Aviation), retiring after a collective 23 years of service to his country (1984 – 2007). His military deployments took him to 5 of the 7 Continents and all 5 of the Oceans. He currently works in the DOD industry and is an Adjunct Professor for ERAU. As the parents of six young adults, he and his wife Wendy are awaiting the next adventure that their empty nest will produce.

Retreat

by D. A. Gray

I.

Redness invades a soldier’s face
after the vice of crossed arms closes
against the cracked proving ground.
Still, it suprises me. We practice
the chokes, the pressure points, the things
I hope we’ll never use. My hands grip
his collar from the inside
in that textbook way so my arms
can cross, scissor-like cutting air.

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