The Other War

by Liam Corley

i
Uncertain whether we expire
lolling in a bucket seat,
single-file on a path, or upright
in a briefing room

as walls roll back like curtains
furling on a smoking stage, we undertake
each duty in a brother’s place,
ill-equipped to sort civilians from the actors
trying merely to survive.

ii
Black sap crusts to a mirror
in a bowl of stars gathered
on a child’s death-day, a weary
sorting through of scrap to start
the house anew.

iii
Causeless in their wire coils,
surveyors push devices into lines
strung below a plank where feet will fall
decisive as a trigger squeeze before
the earth erupts.

iv
The sleepless know the soul’s jihad, fought within
or out as times demand, approaching death
as murder or just consequence,
solid only to the bones
we mend, break, love.

Liam Corley is an OEF veteran. He teaches American literature at California State Polytechnic University in Pomona. His poetry is influenced by the authors he teaches as much as by his time in Afghanistan.

Disgruntled Vet

by Nathan Hruska

I think about my generation a lot.
As my old classmates were protesting rising
Tuition costs and sipping their lattes and espressos
I was fighting in Fallujah, twice.

I helo’d to combat zones, walked long
patrols in oppressive heat, took fire, moved to
and through contact, and my boot soles
are still stained in a dark crimson.

My brothers and I signed up for country,
And asked what we could do.
Only 2 % of my generation swore in,
we damn few, who

put our asses on the line, watched
our brothers bleed out in front of us, watched
children die by the hands of the enemy
and were blamed for it, pissed

ourselves out of fear for our lives, or
the fear for our brothers’ lives.
No, my countrymen would rather
regurgitate their professor rhetoric,

upgrade to the newest smartphone,
complain to their overpaid therapist,
blog about their first world problems,
while my friends are dead, or still dying.

How can I love my flag so dearly
and hate my country so deeply?

Nathan Allen Hruska enlisted in the Marine Corps in 2003 and served with 3rd Reconnaissance Battalion. Nathan has done two combat tours in Fallujah, Iraq, serving as Alpha Co., 2nd Platoon, Team 2’s radio operator and martial arts instructor. He now is serving with the 169th ASOS as a TACP operator. He lives in Wisconsin with his lovely wife, Andrea and his dog, Wilson.

The Calm

by Andrew Jones

Amidst the calm
The sky is clear
Clouds moved on
But the storm rages on
Rages on amidst the calm

Amidst the calm
The rubble smokes
Heat is gone
But the fire rages on
Rages on amidst the calm

Amidst the calm
The air is still
Howling is gone
But the wind rages on
Rages on amidst the calm

Amidst the calm
The waves glide in
Caressing the sand along
But the water rages on
Rages on amidst the calm

Amidst the calm
The grass is soft
Mountains are strong
But the Earth rages on
Rages on amidst the calm

Amidst the calm
The explosions silence
Men’s lives are gone
But the battle rages on
Rages on amidst the calm

Amidst the calm
All is well
We are where we belong
But the anger rages on
Rages on amidst the calm

Andrew R. Jones is a Marine Corps combat veteran who endures the struggles of Post-Traumatic Stress and a mild Traumatic Brain Injury incurred in a blast in the Battle of Baghdad, 2003. He uses writing as a therapeutic tool, hopes to find peace within his heart, and prays for the ability to motivate others to heal as well. He is published in a number of literary journals and magazines, and will be releasing an anthology in the summer of 2013 titled Healing the Warrior Heart, focused on the struggles of post-war life. He currently resides in Phoenix with his fiancée and two sons.

The War Effort

By Marie Colligan

The chrome bumper of the old Ford,
no more rusted and pitted than its counterpart,
the Caddy, parked across the street,
their gas tanks empty.
Both icons of the war effort.

War rationing
Applied to food, tires, gasoline, and nylon stockings.
Its presence sapping the brightest bit of life from every known thing.
“Do Without!” Became the mantra of the war effort.

During this dismal hour,
the absence of happiness
bowed to the tensions of tomorrows
pervading ordinary life
with a gray-water down pour.

“Doing without”
The curse of the war effort.
A country wrapped in a cloak of patriotism—“Do without. Do without.”
Use ration coupons!
We did. We did.
And every pink depression-glass dish
found in soap-powder boxes,
gave hope and color to our gray existence.
Irving Berlin music helped,
but his needle was stuck in a war song groove,
while the Andrew Sisters crooned
to soothe our land
waving banners like magic wands
“Buy U.S. Bonds. U.S. Bonds.”

Marie Colligan, a New Jersey native, currently resides in Lynchburg, Va. She is the oldest niece of 4 veterans who saw active duty in WW2. Her novel, Marcel’s Gift, and her 1st Place award-winning short stories, may be found in her collection, Hurry Up, Charlie, all available on Amazon. She is currently working on a collection of WW2 short stories and poems.

Collateral Damage

by Richard Epstein

I am disturbed,
distraught,
distressed,
depressed.

I am saddened,
sickened,
enraged,
engaged.

Collateral damage,
acceptable losses
how clean,
how sterile it seems.

Bodies without limbs.
Bodies with red, pink
and blackened skin.

Browned bodies bloated
by decay and when
it’s over and time has passed,

firefights, medevacs
replay in their heads,
triggered by a baby’s cry,
a pungent odor,
too much green or red,
a sudden breeze,
a hard stare.

Collateral damage!
Ask the mother who sees
her daughter withdraw
from family and friends.
Ask the childless mother!

Ask the father who sees
his once fun-loving son
disengaged, lost,
and short tempered.
Ask the fatherless son!

Ask the returning soldier
who wakes to recheck
locked doors each night.

Ask the veteran
who avoids crowds
and always sits
near an exit or
with back to a wall.

Richard Epstein served in the Signal Corps as a Microwave Radio Repairman, an Instructor at Ft. Monmouth, New Jersey and Field Engineer attached to the 1st Signal Brigade, Vietnam. He currently participates in the Veterans Writing Project poetry workshop at Walter Reed. Bethesda, MD.