O-Dark-Thirty

Jun 1

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.

May 27

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.

May 22

A Grunt’s Pain

By Damian Rivera

The pain a grunt feels is deep and everlasting. It is not a sharp and piercing pain but a pain that lingers quietly inside and reveals itself only in those quiet moments when a grunt is alone or hidden from public view. It is an emotion that grips the very soul, if there is such a thing, of a grunt and forces him to relive the hell that is war until his dying breathe. It is for him to bear and no one else. Not because he is stronger or braver but because he must. He must carry the burden so that others may not have to.

Apr 29

Romeo Sierra

By Peter Gamble

I looked out at the morning horizon and saw some much needed rain clouds approaching. I didn’t know if they would bring rain or snow to this elevation but I knew we needed that rain/snow.

Apr 27

Fishing in Falluja

By Wade Sayer

The beach was soft and sandy. The white sand seemed very clean this day and the breeze was blowing off shore. The shallow waters were particularly green and quiet. Further out, the deeper blue waters had white caps blowing sideways. Tom carried his rod and a bag he used for fishing with his lures and leaders, extra line and a netted bag just in case he would catch something today. The continuing dream of a fishermen: ‘Today I’ll catch a big one, a keeper.”

Apr 22

WestPac Widows

by Lawrence F. Farrar

Jeff Collingsworth, Ensign USNR, crossed the lobby of the Long Beach Officers’ Club and plunged into the din of the Friday evening happy hour. He spotted Phil Milton propped against the bar drinking beer and trying–unsuccessfully–to catch peanuts in his mouth. Jeff edged through the chattering, laughing crowd to join his shipmate.

Apr 10

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.

Apr 3

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

Matthew Angelicola enlisted in the U.S. Army in 2000 as an Intelligence Analyst and supported several major commands during OIF/OEF. Once his military service was complete he relocated to Virginia to continue working on national defense related issues in a civilian capacity. He and his wife currently live in the Old Town section of Alexandria, VA, where he writes poetry and is currently working on his first book.

Apr 1

Like Church Dust

by Bob Konrardy

November 1965. We’re dug in with the 7^th Cavalry in the Ia Drang Valley and surrounded by North Vietnamese Regulars – over 2,00 of them against less that 400 of us. Instead of replicating the Little Big Horn, however, the last two days and nights the enemy has toyed with us, trying various battle formations and combat tactics to see how our choppers react and how we react. We have become their live fire training exercise.

Mar 30

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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.