#vietnamwar poems on Hello Poetry

Marco Apr 2020

the tide, a never-ending olive green
the advance made silently in
the pitch black night,
dark as the leather on their feet.

wading through the water
a muddy yellow tinged with blood
dripping like machine gun fire
opened fire in the jungle thicket

the river is full of them
treading panic water to escape
treading on landmines -
little pots of death leaving crates,
cutting arms, legs, limbs gone,
lost in the panic water

soldiers in the river,
men in the panic water,
friends in the throes of death
clinging to each other,
kissing olive canvas with red lips
"Tell my girl I love her if I don't make it back!"
holding each other while holding their breath
listening, listening for the next agent to fall
like rain

and orange the rain on viet cong,
the american hatred dropping like bombs,
on ferns and palm trees losing their green
on children losing their voices from all the screaming and crying
their fathers tired of fighting and hanging loose
like landmine limbs,
in the reeds by the river,
waiting for death.

#vietnam #vietnamwar #war #soldiers #army #usa

Benjamin Mar 2018

Made In Vietnam

My husband

sitting on
the ledge of
heaven
or hell,

watching as the
shell of him
drinks warm Budweiser

and

is deaf
to our son's squeaks
of playing with
toy cars.

Daughter
draws a picture
of a restored home
full of colors and
fake smiles

that we show to our
neighbors.

I wish
his glassy-eyed stare
and hidden breakdowns

would've been

shot or stabbed
by the Vietnamese.

I'll pack our bags,
go to my mother
who smokes non-filtered
cigarettes and blows
the smoke to my tired face.

”What did I told you?
I knew he wasn't
strong, what a ******* mouse.”

Georgia and Matthew
eat melted strawberry
ice cream in the
disturbing silence

while I try not to create
psychotic thoughts.

Those eyes
that still see blood and
broken souls
- looking at
a black and white movie

should've been
torn apart
by the forks of hungry children.

#vietnam #vietnamwar #trauma #sad #depressing

Ron Richards Jul 2017

vietnam war

the war tells a story,
its like peeling layers of  onion,
each layer have its painful memory,
we walk through Saigon swamp,
and its cities filled with  hatred,
i traveled from america,
hearts fill with pride,
when i got through Vietnam,
i felt alone,
some felt all messed up,
we all didn't have a clue what we doing,
all we told to ****.

when we gather with all our weapons held high,
its like the age of golden eras,
where men would wear armor,
then we storm the battlefield,
some say this war is for our families,
and others too naive say  we fight for freedom
of whatever  cause we don't know
we sprayed lots of bullet for money.

we build walls to save lives,
but we purge it instead saving,
sometimes i think outside the wall
beyond the jungle ,
and the ninh river,
all i ever think is back home,

my boy is 12 now,
i miss his 12th year birthday,
i was out to fight the *****,
but their freedom wasn't theirs,
it was ours,
we didn't have a clue who we fight for.

i was laid as a skinhead on us,
born in bald hair with sealed uniform,
that looks like we going to war,
arrived in vietnam,
was shocked to see all these innocent died,
for freedom that we don't earn,
it's theirs and its there to stay,
as i grew up around the war,
i learn how to l be human.

a series of stories from other veterans of vietnam

#vietnamwar

Rambus Sep 2016

The Valley

In glorious swoops of courage, the birds’ talons grasp tightly to bloodied men.
Fearful.
Hopeful.
Their silver wind of relief has finally begun to blow.

Though always late, the hawks arrive just in time.
Looking back, the stories speak gruesome truth:
X-Ray was Hell; a no-man’s-land of loss and meaningless fire.
The shed of red life, salted tears, and deep-tissue scars
Has been argued to be worth the ****, sweat, and northward hate for which they feel so deeply;
Debated from the lips and tongues of penguins who live in an idol home of marble and comfort,
A place where mice need not be afraid of man nor hawk,
But should be always mindful of the snake.

The question stands:
What is this all for?

The golden years of reminiscence have passed us by;
Boys have become men, men have become droids.
And these ironclad mechanisms of sacrifice have leaked,
Laughed in the yellow faces of destruction,
Cried in the sweet solace of dreams,
Yet, they remain stoic in their duties.

They are forced to rust.
Forced to fall apart.
Forced to learn
How to replace and be replaced,
How to break and how to mend,
How to hang on.
How to let go.

In the dense forests of struggle,
They play hide and seek with figures unknown:
silhouettes of themselves and each other, as well as those who they are obliged to send to a boggy grave.

They play this game,
They lose this game,
Handing life and limb for a cause which is not their own;
Hardly any cause at all,
But a cause manufactured to rescue that of another.

Brothers departed kiss the white clouds of peace,
Thanking God for the homecoming.
Men enduring thank God for another night amidst their dread,
So to savor every last breath.
Pray for death, hope to live.

Beg the question:
What the Hell am I doing here,
On some other man’s land,
Where my nose does not belong?
Innocent farmers.
Or are they suckers?
Or are WE suckers?
Pawns.
Pawns on a chessboard. Dots and arrows on paper maps.
Statistics.
We’re just a game played by children half an Earth away.
A game where
Some men are lions, some men are wolves,
But all men have learned—if not by now, then soon—
That “friends” equals pain.
And pain is suffering.

Pleading for the answers,
When’s it subside?
When’s it take a back seat so then we can move forward with our lives?

It doesn’t.

It engulfs you.

It becomes your life.

Your dreams.

Your stories.

It becomes you.
Old, frail, desensitized, and stone-faced you.
And at such a young age.

“War is Hell, soldier.”
Welcome to Vietnam.

Written from the perspective of any given man who was a part of the U.S. Military's combat units in Vietnam between 1964 and 1975, intended for the folks back home, as well as those young men who wished and/or were soon to become combatants in the war.

#valley #vietnam #vietnamwar #happyvalley #khesanh #ashau #iadrang

Maria Vera Oct 2014

for the 882,000

it became a perpetual motion
a dance
someone hands the card, another lights
the amount of aching discolored grazed fingers was immense
put your finger on the flint wheel
press it down

karen thought we should make a sign
the scrambles of bruised fingers for a piece of cardboard
my fingers throbbed as i scratched our message on the board
i kept the pink flower locked in the crease of my hand
and threw them in air
“draft card burning here”

it was 7 00 in the morning
october 21 1967
i was only 17
my brother jeffrey was flying a plane over dien bien phu
a friend richard was screaming in the trenches of xuan loc
a lover michael treading through a swamp in mui bai ****

i stepped up to The Police.
The. Men. In. Suits. Stared. At. Me
Blank. Faces. And. No. Expression.
I picked up my Pink Daisy, and brought it up to their bayonets
this is for Jeffrey, for Richard, and for Michael

the men in suits stared at me
in a world of chaos and confusion
all I heard was
Silence.

“La Jeune Fille a la Fleur,” a photograph by Marc Riboud, shows the young pacifist Jane Rose Kasmir planting a flower on the bayonets of guards at the Pentagon during a protest against the Vietnam War on October 21, 1967. The photograph would eventually become the symbol of the flower power movement. I wrote this poem from this photograph.

#war #peace #hippie #vietnam #1960s #flowerpower #vietnamwar #peacemovement #janerosekasmir

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