Fort Holabird
Wind apparent tonight
slams into the barrack’s windows
like a night blind bird
tunneling its’ way through
this old war hooch
carrying with it spirits
dead alien shores past
maybe a dream of a minion mind
On the wall a reflection
a shadow of a night passing
through a mad conscience
chased too soon by
the call of a bugle
the start of day
old before its’ time
and the end of a life
full of innocence
tay ninh 1970
when a round hits a body
there is almost always a thud
a cracking and a man cries out
sometimes there is no sound
bullets whir
tumbling along the earth
just as dangerous
shatter a foot
off to the right
a scream
cry for corpsman
frantic voices working miracles
shark toothed helicopter
lays down fire in support
keeping them off us
while we can gather ourselves
it picks up
sounds of ricochets
whining like banshees
they come for us
no one runs
no place to go
we fight with what we have
they are shocked by our resistance
the line of them
it wavers and comes again
only to stop
and disappear like mist
white smoke set out
choppers coming for wounded
chest wounds first
dust off to a table, no waiting
filled that chopper
took 12 units
floor full of life
hair awash in his own blood
it has been a while
since this frequented
not as often now
I heard he made it
never told anyone
kept inside till
it just came out
like an old spent round
national anthem
turned them down
he did
asked him to masquerade
as a war hero
daily he fights alienation
from his former self
his ghost past makes
a misfit at home
disengaged public
finds war wildly popular
at sporting events somehow
finding themselves undeserving of the effort
with every bar sung
mind is reopened
every pat on the back makes
you want to burn everything down
history distorts war
authors work well
to find plot and meaning
sorting out the fragmentation
there is not enough room
for what is brought home
and no one seems to know
what he is being thanked for
(first published October 22, 2014, Vol.29 in Clockwise Cat)
~Dan Jacoby
it wavers and comes again
only to stop
and disappear like mist
white smoke set out
choppers coming for wounded
chest wounds first
dust off to a table, no waiting
filled that chopper
took 12 units
floor full of life
hair awash in his own blood
it has been a while
since this frequented
not as often now
I heard he made it
never told anyone
kept inside till
it just came out
like an old spent round
national anthem
turned them down
he did
asked him to masquerade
as a war hero
daily he fights alienation
from his former self
his ghost past makes
a misfit at home
disengaged public
finds war wildly popular
at sporting events somehow
finding themselves undeserving of the effort
with every bar sung
mind is reopened
every pat on the back makes
you want to burn everything down
history distorts war
authors work well
to find plot and meaning
sorting out the fragmentation
there is not enough room
for what is brought home
and no one seems to know
what he is being thanked for
(first published October 22, 2014, Vol.29 in Clockwise Cat)
~Dan Jacoby
