Dear David:

We are deeply gratified that you gave us the opportunity
to read your poems.  Notice that we say “opportunity”
rather than “submission,” for truly you graced us with works
of such enduring power, so sublime, so transcendent,
that our humble words scarce can adequately praise
the sacred privilege of reading them.

Seldom, no, never has human experience been so distilled,
so purified, so exalted, yet so exposed
in all its paradox, its shades and sunbursts,
shouts and silences, the hiding places redolent of inner light,
as in these timeless works.  

A calm breeze from the desert’s edge at dusk,
the chatter of a mockingbird at dawn,
the rumble and crash of a hidden waterfall,
the laughter of a child unseen in a cool wood’s shade,
emanate so intensely from the shapes of these letters
that our faith in the power of language to evoke reality
has been nourished and restored to its proper place.

However, we regret to inform you
that your poems do not meet our needs at this time,
which are for relevant poems for the upcoming
theme issue on Hammer Toes.

We hope you will consider us for future opportunities.

Sincerely,

The editors of ******* Quarterly

The War Correspondent

A helicopter skeetered bravely in
And pitched and yawed against the enemy fire
That wasn’t there.  The manliest of men
Descended unto us in flawless attire

His tailored khaki suit was starched and pressed
Its creases as sharp as a Ka-bar knife
Never was a reporter more perfectly dressed
For getting the news while risking his life

The C.O. sped him past our positions
And hustled him into the T.O.C.1
To ensure each noun and preposition
Would be written for the greater good, you see

Much ink and Scotch were undoubtedly spilled
In air-conditioned comfort, no heat or mud;
With scripted heroics his notebook was filled
No need to stain his suit with his precious blood

After an hour he was hustled back
To Saigon for an evening reception
After he wrote of a great attack
And wired New York his immaculate deception

A helicopter skeetered bravely out
And yawed and pitched against a ******’s shot
That wasn’t there.  A great Communist rout?
There’s more than one kind of jungle rot


1Tactical Operations Center - command bunker, often air-conditioned.

It's dark tonight
And I cannot breathe
The hands of time
Are slowly choking me
Tick Tick
Watch the color
Fade from my face
Tick Tock
Watch my body
Fall through space
Caught inside
These hands of time
Losing my grip
Losing my mind
Tick Tick
Why can't I see
What these hands
Want from me
Tick Tock
I'm fading fast
This life is just a memory
That can never last

Can we live to dream the impossible dream?

Where temperance and virtue have meaning,.

Where character stands for something stronger than the blank faces we tend to hide behind

Where words are powerful and are not some desolate idea of constant torture toward others

Where lives are not destroyed by bullets but prosper with kindness and love

Where we help the healing wounds of others instead of cutting the scar deeper

Where the colors of our skin are not seen but the whole person is viewed from the inside

Where we don't burn our cities to the ground when our leaders can't even shake hands and their evil grins continue to bounce off the wall

Where we breathe the same air without ******* in the toxic fumes that continue to choke us to death

Where we see through the same lens without them foggy up because of the destruction of the world

Can we live to dream the impossible dream or is the impossible dream impossible to dream when we continue to live?

I laugh at the sound
    of the wind
As it echoes through my mind
Telling me stories of memories
     I had previously left behind
  with caricatures of faces
I can no longer remember in reality
      And songs from past places
That bring me down
         with the emotional gravity
And I was my thoughts spin around
                 and around
    I get dizzy from the intensity
                and my sanity
        Can no longer be found
                 Yet
I can still hear the wind
      And I laugh at the sound

This path we all walk alone through our minds
Has the most comforting of hiding spots
Like the trees in nature all around us
We grow our thoughts
We branch out and reach for the horizon
We build up walls
To provide the shade and oxygen we need
To breathe
To have the silence we can only find within ourselves
To continue on this journey with a clear mind
We create ideas within this path
We travel on and bring as much beauty to the world as we can
And yet,
Sometimes the only comfortable solace we have
Is alone,
Just walking down this path