I’ve been up
  all night
slow dancing
            with the reasons why
                         my canvas is still mostly
empty and
  my palate
  holds only
seven shades of black.
  While I’m weeping
through a
 Foxtrot with
my paintbrush
        and daubing
     midnight
stains across
my walls
the Hollyhocks
still bloom
        outside my door.
      The humming birds
    adore them
standing tall and
lavender
  but I can’t stop
   to waltz with them
I’ll lose
this beat
     and genius
        that fickle muse
will quickstep
   on
and leave me here
behind.
  ljm

~

i recall the ward,
smell of antiseptic
and new paint blended,
with the stench of
dried on bandages,
the smell of
rotting flesh,
the cries of men
too old to cry,
faces now, too
burned for tears,
could only wonder why.
the clang of
stainless steel
bowls that held the
closest thing to soothing,
unquenchably thirsty skin.
for these,
souls sent off to war,
though i was
but a boy,
my father,
was a preacher,
sent to save
these men from hell...
i knew already then
hell was...
a place already known,
seen and felt;
and flames...
these men had walked.
and when asked to pray,
believe you me,
pray i did,
that these images,
and these men...
would all go away.

~

*post script.

some chuckle when i, born in 1960, tell them i remember Vietnam.  yet i still weep when i remember.  Vietnam was to this young boy watching formations of fighter jets taking off for a battlefield he could not know; accompanying his father to visit with and pray for the GI’s in the burn ward of Sagami-Ono’s US Army Hospital near Yokohama, on the main island of Japan, a few minute’s drive from what we then called home.  the sights, sounds and smells of Vietnam are etched forever, without having ever set foot on it’s soil.  my five siblings have no such recollection, leading me to believe... either they were never invited or... their prayers were answered.