Do I remember too much about
The strangers I meet?
There was the skinny seven year old at the
Park in Detroit, who I learned liked autumn
And colorful leaves, pumpkins and Halloween,
Scarecrows and working in the garden.
There was the Japanese lady at the
Hotel breakfast in DC, calmly eating a donut,
Staring off into space, gracefully lost in her own
Thoughts and feelings.
There was the happy man at the
Veteran’s home, who talked gratefully to me
About his experiences, desperate to
Share his story.
There was the single mother on
The park bench, allowing me, a total stranger,
To watch her children while she took
A much needed nap.
There was the black man at the
Movie theater, who offered me his
Extra bag of popcorn and made sure I knew
When the jump scares were.
Do I remember too much about
The strangers I meet?
I don’t think so.
Appreciate humanity,
Because you never know when it might be gone.
Each one of these people were beautiful,
In their own way, and they weren’t even
Trying to be.
They were just living their lives,
And I was fortunate enough to be a part of them
For a short time.
You know why they were beautiful?
Because they just were.

The breezes of spring
bellowing pitches from low to high
whipping through my tresses
that keep me warm inside,
giving movement to the rope swing out back.
A rotting apple nearby
(probably not ours)
and that bench in it's place with stories to tell,
where we spent sunsets
perched and burnt.
It all brings me back.

My eyes starting to water from smoke,
squinting through the hazy air
at the overcrowded couch - a war veteran
sitting proud in the center of the room,
holding up the unforgiving weight of teenage angst.
Visible scars,
a testament to its years served,
memories fixed with duct tape.
And I, sitting on the edge of a wooden dining room chair,
began to wonder how we all ended up in these places -
the couch, the youth,
the stains in the carpet,
the fly on the window sill
trapped between the panes,
unbothered and unnoticed.
I tipped my head back and ran my fingers
through my thinning hair,
closing my eyes to catch a glimpse
of tomorrow morning.

We were all younger
dumber
naïve
but the purest we would ever be.
Now I'm flying down 87
and I have to train my mind
not to wander without purpose
so I try to remind myself
that I've been back to those rooftops,
and I know
the air will never sink in as sweet
as when we were whole,
in years lost to the breezes of spring.

An old man sits in his Reclining chair
Silent and still as a windless day
He looks out the window
To a time and a land far away
He remembers the constant state of fear
He remembers the death that was there
Letters from a sweetheart in a foreign language
That laid strewn across the ground
After he killed a young man that looked just like him
His screams and cries keep him awake sometimes
He remembers his mates Jim and Jack
Who never made it back
He still can’t talk about the hit Jim took
Jack they couldn’t find all the pieces
They say he was lucky he came back unscathed
Or did he?

The dawn cracks as the majestic artillery ceases its roar.
I sit in a trench that once sustained life.
A boy in men’s clothes, watching and waiting.
The whistle sounds that puts my heart in my throat, as fear rolls across my body.
I climb the 20 foot ladder in seconds, over the top rifle at the ready.
I’ll do my part for king and country.
As I look across the writhing and moaning muddy hell.
The barking of machine guns reach my ears.
With the sound of steel bees whizzing past my head I run past the barbed wire nest that protects our trench.
As I sprint with a scream in my voice, a fear in my heart and heroics running through my brain.
I see the enemy close yet a 1000 miles away.
Suddenly the world goes quiet, slows, my legs fail and I fall to the embrace of the mud.
Another lost son to the heavenly hell of Passchendaele

“stay low, go fast,

**** first, die last,

one shot, one ****,

no luck, all skill”

(Unofficial Navy Seal Slogan)

I stand at the graveside watching
as each person steps forward
to throw dirt on the coffin

I study each face closely
and marvel at all humanity
What is it about funerals
that causes all to attend?

And yet in a life well spent
not a visit, not even a scent
I laid down my life, as you see
laid it so they could be free

It must be a sense of duty
now they come to visit me
Oh- the hypocrisy of humanity!
And now another journey awaits me

I soar to meet passing clouds
caught in the upstream of wind
a final glance, and just by chance
I catch your eyes following me

©Vivian Zems

The sun always sets first on cloud high
That’s what he thought as the flag waved
It flew against the background he once flew
Before the bursts of light that frame his sleep

From the nose of the bomber he saw it first
It was his life and it was in God’s hands now
There was something about peacemakers
He tried not to think about what was right

He thought of these things as the horizon bent
He never was one to hate anybody or anything
Oh the longing for peace but that was not today
He wondered if they would think he was weak

He knew a song about praying the morning after
But what if that’s too late to ask for mercy
It's been so long since he wondered about it
These things are only for poets to write

They didn’t know we were coming home
Who is that at the door? Are you all right?
Looking at you tells me that I need to be
Just never ask me that question ever again

The Library of Alexandria in Our Seabags

…in the army…(e)very few days one seemed to meet a scholar, an original, a poet, a cheery buffoon, a raconteur, or at the very least a man of good will.”

-C. S. Lewis, Surprised by Joy

The barracks was our university
So too the march, the camp, the line for chow
McKuen shared our ham and lima beans
John Steinbeck helped with cleaning guns and gear

(You’re not supposed to call your rifle a gun)

The Muses Nine were usually given a miss
But not Max Brand or Herman Wouk
Cowboys and hobbits and hippie poets
And a suspicious Russian or two

Tattered paperbacks jammed into our pockets:
All the world was our university

a man holding a sign
in the cold rain
“forgotten Vietnam vet”

disposable as napkins
they clean up your mess

you can toss them away
but the stain
bleeds through

as your heated seats
warm only
your ego