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JV Beaupre May 2016
Canto I. Long ago and far away...

Under the bridge across the Kankakee River, Grampa found me. I was busted for truancy. First grade. 1946.

Summer and after school: Paper route, neighborhood yard work, dogsbody in a drugstore, measuring houses for the county, fireman EJ&E railroad, janitor and bottling line Pabst Brewery Peoria. 1952-1962.

Fresh caught Mississippi River catfish. Muddy Yummy. Burlington, Iowa. 1959. Best ever.

In college, Fr. ***** usually confused me with my roommate, Al. Except for grades. St. Procopius College, 1958-62. Rats.

Coming home from college for Christmas. Oops, my family moved a few streets over and forgot to tell me. Peoria, 1961.

The Pabst Brewery lunchroom in Peoria, a little after dawn, my first day. A guy came in and said: "Who wants my horsecock sandwich? ****, this first beer tastes good." We never knew how many he drank. 1962.

At grad school, when we moved into the basement with the octopus furnace, Dave, my roommate, contributed a case of Chef Boyardee spaghettios and I brought 3 cases of beer, PBRs.  Supper for a month. Ames. 1962.

Sharon and I were making out in the afternoon, clothes a jumble. Walter Cronkite said, " President Kennedy has been shot…”. Ames, 1963.

I stood in line, in my shorts, waiting for the clap-check. The corporal shouted:  "All right, you *******, Uncle and the Republic of Viet Nam want your sorry *****. Drop 'em".  Des Moines. Deferred, 1964.

Married and living in student housing. Packing crate furniture. Pammel Court, 1966.

One of many undistinguished PhD theses on theoretical physics. Ames. 1967.

He electrified the room. Every woman in the room, regardless of age, wanted him, or seemed to. The atmosphere was primeval and dripping with desire. In the presence of greatness. Palo Alto, 1968.

US science jobs dried up. From a mountain-top, beery conversation, I got a research job in Germany. Boulder, 1968. Aachen, 1969.

The first time I saw automatic weapons at an airport. Geneva, 1970.

I toasted Rembrandt with sparkling wine at the Rijksmuseum. He said nothing. Amsterdam International Conference on Elementary Particles. 1971.

A little drunk, but sobering fast: the guard had Khrushchev teeth.
Midnight, alone, locked in a room at the border.
Hours later, release. East Berlin, 1973. Harrassment.

She said, "You know it's remarkable that we're not having an affair." No, it wasn't. George's wife.  Germany, 1973.

"Maybe there really are quarks, but if so, we'll never see them." Truer than I knew.  Exit to Huntsville, 1974.

On my first day at work, my first federal felony. As a joke, I impersonated an FBI agent. What the hell? Huntsville. 1974. Guess what?-- No witnesses left! 2021.

Hard work, good times, difficult times. The first years in Huntsville are not fully digested and may stay that way.

The golden Lord Buddha radiated peace with his smile. Pop, pop. Shots in the distance. Bangkok. 1992.

Accomplishment at work, discord at home. Divorce. Huntsville. 1994. I got the dogs.

New beginnings, a fresh start, true love and life-partner. Huntsville. 1995.

Canto II. In the present century...

Should be working on a proposal, but riveted to the TV. The day the towers fell and nearly 4000 people perished. September 11, 2001.

I started painting. Old barns and such. 2004.

We bet on how many dead bodies we would see. None, but lots of flip-flops and a sheep. Secrets of the Yangtze. 2004

I quietly admired a Rembrandt portrait at the Schiphol airport. Ever inscrutable, his painting had presence, even as the bomb dogs sniffed by. Beagles. 2006.

I’ve lost two close friends that I’ve known for 50-odd years. There aren’t many more. Huntsville. 2008 and 2011.

Here's some career advice: On your desk, keep a coffee cup marked, "No Whining", that side out. Third and final retirement. 2015.

I occasionally kick myself for not staying with physics—I’m jealous of friends that did. I moved on, but stayed interested. Continuing.

I’m eighty years old and walk like a duck. 2021.

Letter: "Your insurance has lapsed but for $60,000, it can be reinstated provided you are alive when we receive the premium." Life at 81. Huntsville, 2022.

Canto III: Coda

Honest distortions emerging from the distance of time. The thin comfort of fading memories. Thoughts on poor decisions and worse outcomes. Not often, but every now and then.

(Begun May 2016)
preservationman Aug 2015
It was famous celebrities I met
It was all in a normal set
I met David Rockefeller, former Chase Chairmen
He had a top position being the number one rank
We bumped into each other and talked for 5 minutes in Rockefeller Center
Later it was Cardinal Terrance Cooke of St. Patrick’s Cathedral
We shook hands on the steps of the Cathedral on 5th Avenue at a time when the church was celebrating their 100th Centennial
Who could forget Arnold Schwarzzenger long before he became Governor of California
It was a vintage when he competed in bodybuilding competition with the top Bodybuilding
Title being Mr. Olympia
We met at the Mid-City Gym, a ******* gym back in the day with many famous Soap Actors and Wrestlers who trained there
Speaking of Wrestlers, I met Superstar Billy Graham and Irvin, the Polish Power
Who could forget Ralph Nader, Politician advocate
It was at CNN Center in Atlanta, Georgia where met the Media Chief, Ted Turner
It was an acquaintance as he came flying through the stair doors where we were standing with our Tour guide
It wasn’t part of the tour, but was a lucky stride
So I was my own Walter Cronkite in seeing celebrities with my own eyes
My own Media event with captured moments in how my time was spent.
Renee S L Nov 2010
I drove to heaven today.

I drove into it. I waited patiently
five minutes the light lasted.

A one lane into heaven,
and one lane out.

Some people were alone in their cars.
Some were a whole family.

It seems only few were rejected.
Only few cars passed,
while I waited patiently for that tunnel light.

Single filed we drove and it grew dark with light
only evenly spaced out above us.

No one was biking into heaven today.
The light at the end of the tunnel
gradually became brighter, and more
beautiful.

It was a quiet and peaceful drive.
I knew where I was going.

I parked my car where I could find room.
Heaven seemed cramped.
There ought to have been a carpool/bus system.

I got out and strolled.
I had my flip flops and blazer on.
I was ready.
I walk towards the beach.
There is no fog.

The water is clearer than before.
It was beautiful out.
I just stared out into the distance.
there were surfers not surfing
very well.
but no one seemed to mind.
People were laughing and giggling
but there was no sound.
Only the sound the waves made in the distance.


I knew we were all going to be let in soon
The 'sun' was setting and
a storm seemed to block the way of the sun
as it grew slightly dimmer
and the faces grew darker
I decided I ought to leave.
Not because I did not want to go to Heaven
but I know nothing else
other than this life.

No one paid any attention to me.
And those who were rejected
their cars had left.

The parking lot empty.
I drove a different path and waited.
5 minutes for the light to turn again.

5 minutes to go into the tunnel
and back to earth.
Geno Cattouse Jun 2013
Still today
Danang. Saigon.Tet.
Mi Lai. ** Chi min trail.
All and more on reverb
The unwinable in black body bags.
Dam.

Just like Cronkite's musdtache goimg on and on
Drafted into the  wood chipper
The buzz saw. for what.
Then the embassy buggie.
Choppers listing into the sea.

Half baked. Blood on ground.
For what.

Visit Vietnam. A travelers paradise. Half price
now with great accomodations.
Cambodia too.for the price of one.
Kamir Red.
How many dead?
For what.
Francie Lynch Feb 2017
In my youth,
They called it an Idiot Box,
But at six and eleven,
The real news arrived.
Africa, Vietnam,
Assassinations;
Mr. Ed and Mr. Sullivan shared our dessert.
The IB gave bedlam meaning.
Now,
We're patients in the asylum,
Spotting wardrobe malfunctions,
Commenting on roses,
Losing airwave evangelists
For commandments
Flung from the Tower of Babel.
While the sun is sleeping and the morning dj's too,
The radio news anchor is in to work by three
It's not because we're busy, or we're special..no, no , no
It's because the station trusts us, and besides...we have the key!!

We're on the road, at Dunkin' Donuts,
while the day olds are still fresh
We're in before the DJ's
Because we don't live like Phil Lesh

By the time the DJ's wander in
We've read more, than they will say
We've even cued up the morning intro
We know the songs they all will play

We have our room for research
Actually, two newspapers and a phone
We're not quite Walter Cronkite
But, hey...throw us a bone

The life of a radio anchor
Is not one that's all rosy
We do it 'cause we love it
It's not just because we're nosy

We get the freshest donuts, hottest coffee and the key
And did I neglect to mention, first one in gets donuts free?
The DJ's do their concerts, party hard, are full of soul
And twice a week you'll find them, down at Skippy's Pool and Bowl

We're not all like Les Nessman
Although, there is  a part of me
That would love to have a station
Like old W K R P

The life of the news anchor
Starts out daily in the dark
We dig around for stories
And make up others for a lark

We are in line for more promotions
We're the one that the boss sees
Did I mention, we get donuts
And that the boss gives us the key?
For Chuck Rowe, who challenged me to write one about Radio News Anchors, because he's lonely and felt left out. Here you go Chuck.
John F McCullagh May 2013
Back in the days of Vietnam
We said: “Make Love, not war.”
No matter how many Cong we killed
Like Doritos, they made more.
Walter Cronkite helped keep score
as the toll grew ever higher.
Foes relentless as the monsoon rains
They made Nam a quagmire.
We killed them all three times at least
Surely all of them were gone.
Then shortly after we had left
They turned up in Saigon!
Now we’re in a forever war
without a likely winner.
A pity we can claim a draw
And bring the boys home for dinner.
Based on a bumper sticker
spysgrandson Sep 2014
"back in the day" is something
the masses have begun to say--they didn't hear,
five miles to school in the snow, uphill, both ways
nor did I, but I did hide in an arroyo from wicked desert sands,
crouching small with my notebook protecting my acne pocked face
the chosen (with fewer zits) poured from shiny clean station wagons,
their morning mothers’ smiles on their tails, sans the gray grit
from my lonely wilderness journey

still,
we got our first color TV that year,
and I got to see red blood from the first fallen
in that crazy Asian war...I can't remember what color it was
on the black and white, though it dried black on my jungle fatigues,
only five years later, when Sugar Ray from south side Chi-town died
in my arms, one of his skinny legs blown off by a mine
someone decided to put on that trail,
back in the day

Walter Cronkite told us it was all for naught, and we believed him
Johnny Carson still made laughs while anonymous millions made love
(now I hear tell Jay Leno is "back in the day," so who the hell was he?)
gas lines began to form, and Tricky **** tripped on his tongue,
one too many times, and even more chanted the mantra,
"back in the day"

decades passed,
with Iran holding hostages, Ronny Ray-Gun getting shot
and Clinton getting a *******, and the day finally came,
when we were told we were all the same, with some folks
named "Will and Grace" gracing the screen,
now that Walter and Johnny and Superman
retired to a place called obscurity,
or maybe Nebraska

I didn't know what to tell my straight kids, so I didn't
and that was OK, because their "back in the day" was 9/11
and it mattered not who was het or gay, because nobody had black and white anymore,
those tube filled dinosaurs now in some landfill, buried beneath a billion dead cell phones,
a trillion plastic bottles, the cyber art of Steve Jobs and Bill Gates,
and the dung of dogs who could stand the sterile scent
or who did not care

now we still say back in the day,
the view of that backward horizon different for all
I try hard not to wonder, what spell we are no longer under
when we can’t call someone a ***, or hang someone
who simply tries to vote, and of course I must duly note
when my PC is silenced in a newer pile of trash
it will not matter who was gay, or who says,
back in the day
**disclaimer: this has nothing to do with Truman Capote's ****** orientation nor is it homophobic--it was simply a nostalgic trip I took today, composed, ironically perhaps, on my cell phone
My mother had just put me down for a nap

And was folding clean diapers on her lap

When Cronkite broke in on her show

And announced for everyone to know

That JFK had been shot in Dallas

He didn't want to be callous

Soon Cronkite would announce

The death of Kennedy he pronounced

My parents for many days were  inconsolable

As this tragedy to the world was quite horrible

All this had happened and it was quite fast

News was coming and it was constant and vast

My father’s birthday that day was to be celebrated

But my parents agreed it would have to be belated

The world had just changed and in shock and everyone remained.

No one could speak and it seemed everyone was ashamed.

Of whom really shot our President JFK

On that chilly, frightening, and horrifying day.




Copyright 2013

All Rights Reserved
mark john junor Oct 2013
she begins to swing her hips
and flicks her bick to overload
her lips on fire with the words
her mind is a furnace comin unglued
see the images leaking out the seams
rivets slamming the walls
as the ***** busts a nut
she is full on now
aint no stopping
aint no slowin down
what are you crazy think you want her
spreadin roots in this state of mind
like unleashing a hailstorm in a paper cup
this version of the girl aint for bring home to momma
she swims out of her eyes
and bites the natural world
but she is an artwork on two fast feet
she is the cover of time pasted on a cereal box
eat that walter cronkite

any questions

his hand a tangled knot
in the handles of his life
and the he begins to bounce on his feet
as the tune rides up onstage
the crows parts to let the kid roll
they can tell this one is gonna burn the carpet
he  calls out the things on his mind
the funky thing crawls down his mind
and out the dancing in his legs
heavy steps like rolling thunder
light ones like flashes of lightening
see the music speak with this
poor fools broken form bouncing
but see that ear to ear grin
that ain't painted there
its live and in person
cause this is living
when the music shakes to your soul
long into the night as the band onstage
plays through their list
plays all the favorite ones
and some for the silly little ones who think
its so cute to wear weekend Tye-dye
these two got the dance-floor sweating
these two stretching the flesh
and greeting the sky
one star at a time
people can you feel the heat
coming off her
shes gonna give birth to a lighting rod
and its gonna explode allover this dance-floor

all  too soon the band is pulling out the encore
fare thee something
and her exhausted smile is filled with love
for every note she has made love to
this night
and his laugh is for the trails of mind light
that he has danced with and ran with
they wind it on down
they meet in the middle
and hold eachother
as the music finally fades
the rest of the world goes home to sleep
these two
will lay down to relive it in visions
for a lifetimes in a dream
goodnight prince of the river
goodnight princess of dreadlocks
dedicated to Jay Bianchi and Quixotes True Blue...a piece of sunshine eternal
spysgrandson Dec 2013
he howled about the best minds of his generation  
being lost, but I am not sure they were ever found  
though I once lapped up his words like a cat with the sweet cream  
or a ravenous dog licking the bottom of his bowl
after a cold wet fast--yep, a dog, like that
and who ever called us the dogs of war?
canines don’t know **** about war: the waiting,
the planning, the measuring, the murdering  
they only know fear and what it tastes like to win
what it sounds like to lose, but they didn’t choose  
they didn’t have a moral dilemma when fur and teeth and flesh
became a hot blur a la ****** cur, we,
with our “best minds” he thought were festering
were duped  only by ourselves, by our desire to believe
the simple sweet lies rather than the shredding shedding truth  
who could we blame? Walter Cronkite? Norman Mailer?
John Wayne, Nixon or Peter Pan?
yes, he howled; his howling wasn’t that
of the wolf at the moon, revealing an eternal hunger for a full belly  
but a desperate audible gasp for one honest line, one
affluent aphorism before he slipped into the abyss
I won’t give it to him, because I was one of the dogs of war
not pretending to be wolf like he, not lamenting the loss
of great minds, whatever the **** those are  
I was washing the blood from my paws and snout
trying to forget it came from some mother’s son  
trying to silence the screaming of the other pups
when they fell prey to my razor sharp teeth  
given to me by the state, honed to perfection
not by a washing of my brain, but a heart that lusted for the ****  
long before I saluted my first flag, long before I swelled  
with drunken pride at the bugler’s song, or marched
in cadence with the deadly drums,
he howled, but I didn’t hear an imploring sound
when they lowered me into the godforsaken ground
Stephen E Yocum Oct 2014
I don't get bigotry, never have.

I don't get born again Christians,
Weren't they born once already?
I don't get do nothing Tea Party Republicans,
Who as it turns out are mostly the same
Born Again people.

I don't get any fake *** politicians,
They aren't people they're a product.
Manufactured and packaged to please
the tastes of the gullible public.

I don't get why super rich people would
want to go to Washington and take
(For them) a low paying job in Congress
and then sit on their hands and do nothing?
With their money they could go buy a lush
Island in the sun and lay about and really
do nothing while drinking a ice cold beer.
Which sounds like lots more fun.  

I don't get bad wars fought for bad reasons.

I don't get people that **** other people
of the same religion for no discernible reason.
While yelling "God Is Good or Great!" or what ever.
I don't get why they'd think "God" would even
appreciate that.

But then, I don't get people that **** people.
Or insanity, religious insanity is even worse.

I don't get still using oil to power things
while we know **** well there are good
viable alternatives.

I don't get the rabid Right To Lifers,
who want to dictate to all woman
their "One And Only Solution".

I guess I don't get why
People tell you they love you,
Then later change their minds.

I don't get kids killing kids
on school yards with guns.
Or the fools that do not lock
up their guns that their kids
find and use to **** other kids
on school yards.

I don't get why so many people
want things to stand still,
just because they can't keep up.

I don't get those folks that swear
that global warming is not a reality,
while every day the oceans rise
a little more.

I don't get why we little people let the
one per centers run our country and lives.

I don't get why we allow Big Business
to out source millions of jobs to other lands
when people here at home are unemployed.

I get "Humanitarian Aid" but why do we send
billions of dollars to countries that hate us?

I don't get why we need a dozen TV channels
of 24 hour news, (Some of which distort the truth
to fit their political leanings) news repeated and
repeated until we are scared and numb and
don't know truth from pure old *******.

I don't get where honest "News Men" like
Mr. Cronkite and his breed, guys that made
sure of their facts and would only dispense
the truth, went and why there are no more
of them?

I don't get why Bush and Cheney are not
in the slammer for their many lies and
outright Treason! Starting wars that never
end and shouting WMDs when none existed.

The simple answer to all this,
"these things that I do not get", is,
"It's all ******* and It's Bad For Ya' ."
The late and wonderful humorist George Carlin when
addressing the subjects of Politics and other unexplained
mysteries of social ******* would say and often repeat
"It's all ******* and it's bad for ya' ".  And I agree.
Unfortunately, every day I get another dose of this reality.
Now if only some Penicillin could cure it.
James Floss Sep 2018
A small step
A giant leap with
Chirps and tweeps
Tween Houston and there

Playing on the RCA
Console color TV
In the living room
When I was eleven

Something stirring
In my pre-adolescent soul
An ache; a yearning
Still with me now

Every launch since
Plumes of vapor and smoke
Lifting humans that
Challenge mortality

Every view of this blue mote
Seen from afar dazzles me
Earth rise from the moon
Dancing auroras from ISS

I could see the Milky Way there
Lucky rural boy I was
I can see the Milky Way here
Lucky rural man I am

I want us to go
I want us to know
I want us to yearn
To learn “Are we alone?”

A kid then, adult now
I want to remove my glasses
As Cronkite did then
When we set foot on Mars
CR Jun 2013
A vinyl record makes the rounds, dust attached loose to the needle, imperceptibly
breaking
off
making
short
homes
for each
molecule
in each
black
groove.
Your hurricane breath will send them subatomic-
Superdomeward on your next mad quest
to convince your girlfriend that you are neat&clean.;

You sit crosslegged, Buddha on the brain,
corporation on the docket.
Which
one
do
you
dream
of?
And more importantly,
which
one
should
you
dream
for?
The twenty in your pocket will get you one-fifth of a silver ring
or five turkey sandwiches.
“You can’t have your cake and eat it too”—it wasn’t Buddha who said that, but
it’s Buddha’s smiling voice in which you hear it now, between your ears.
“What the **** does that mean, Buddha?” you sigh, and there is no answer.

You move, and move, and you keep on moving. You leave a little molecule
on the subway, and on the bar, and on the sidewalk without feeling it, losing them to
short
homes
vulnerable.
The hurricane breath or the sunshine or the invisible rubber glove of
Buddha, or Carl Solomon, or Walter Cronkite or God or whoever does the universe’s spring cleaning
will send them subatomic-Superdomeward
and you’ll never even know you missed them.

Your girlfriend thinks it’s realcool you have a record player,
but it’s a little dusty, she says.
You touch her lower back and smile. You get eye-level with the needle,
and you blow.
John F McCullagh Apr 2015
When police were called it was too late, he could not be revived
Peter Cronkite, just twenty two, had committed suicide.
He was a natural athlete, handsome and well bred.
He fell victim to the demons that were screaming in his head.
His whole life lay before him: he’d been dealt a decent hand.
He chose a common grave instead- for reasons we can’t understand.
In life we all make choices and young Cronkite has made his,
As Grandpa Walter often said: “And that’s the way it is..”
Peter Cronkite, Grandson of the famous newscaster, has committed suicide at age 22 just before his college graduation.
JFK
The assassination of President John F. Kennedy
To many this has always been an unsolved Mystery

JFK was shot in Dallas, Texas on the 22 of November
We are still mourning him, and will always remember

Abraham Zapruder had no idea what he'd be filming
Would be under scrutiny by the public for viewing

Some said the shots came from the grassy knoll
Where they came from no one will ever know

Jackie Kennedy in terrible shock, crawled out onto the limousine
She could not recall doing this, when the Secret Service Intervened

Walter Cronkite reported this shocking news to us in tears
And in all his years of work, he will forever be revered

Jackie in her blood stained suit stood beside Lyndon B. Johnson
When he took the oath of office to be next president of our nation

Oswald told the world that he was a patsy
Jack Ruby shooting him on TV was ghastly

Life Magazine chronicled the events
Filling each page with all JFK contents

To this day there still are reenactments and movies
And everyone like me still feels this is newsworthy

Copyright 2013
All Rights Reserved
Geno Cattouse Oct 2013
I got that letter this morning it was no surprise to me
All hands on deck.
Boot camp in three weeks. get your ducks lined up. Charlie has a bullet for me.Maybe a bouncing Betty or two.

Camp Lejeune. Jar  head central.
Drop yer ***** and grab yer socks ...Gonna get my mind right for the fight.

So. Face down in this Paddy. Buffalo crap. ******* lite.
Locked and loaded.Gonna die today I think.My number's about to play.
Mr Charlie on home turf. Incoming is whistling me a lullaby.

So tell me again why I gotta be here?
Down for the di di. Goin the other way.

V.C. can see me but I cant triangulate.
Little guy in black pajamas. Fighting for their wives kids and mamas.
Need to dig in. gotta move.

Boom.  

six  O clock news . Mr Cronkite singing the body bag blues.
Old McNamara just upped the ante.
Mothers dont let yer babies grow up to be cowboys.
Miss Percival's famous jell-o molds were
the talk of every summer block party.
No one was sure where she had come up with
exotic shapes that adorned red benches
robins, and faces of famous people
they really were a thing to be envied.

One Memorial Day, though, there came a shriek from Miss Percival's kitchen
and the flowery curtains shuffled as they did so

The first ones in (the couple that brought the waldorf salad every year. It was good, but it was nothing next to Miss P's jell-o molds)
were Mr. and Mrs. Carroway
Mrs. Carroway almost fainted when she saw what was on the counter

You see, Miss Percival was fond of one site for her molds
and they shipped them in every month in big brown crates
there was a big brown crate, to be sure
but no mold inside

It isn't proper to gossip, but I heard that it was a bowl full of eyeballs;
A medical school had put the wrong address on their order.
I bet that there was a confused batch of medical students
being stared at by a jell-o model of Walter Cronkite.
John F McCullagh Nov 2014
Do you recall where you were that day, that November Friday afternoon?
The moment that you heard the news that someone had murdered J.F.K?
Some were just children at the time who now have grown so old and grey.
Half those Americans are gone who heard what Cronkite had to say.
That day that Camelot came to grief, and power passed to L.B.J.
Yes, I am a child of then, that day lives still in memory.
this is the anniversary of the assassination of John F. Kennedy
Mark Lecuona Feb 2017
There was a time when I would play
Today was the same as yesterday
The news was read by a man named Cronkite
With my Dad we listened in the panel room light
I wondered if war was wrong; or was it right?

What could I ever know
Except what the TV might show
Was it what a preacher might preach
Or what a general might teach
The canon of a ghost a father and a son?
Or flags flying high above a smoking gun?

I saw a man with a loaded gun
Pointing at the temple of another one
But they were far away from me
Then I saw the barrel of a rifle
And a flower planted by a disciple
He said blessed are the peacemakers
But so too a man who lays down his life

I thought about a carpenter
A soldier and a gardener
The gospel rang in my ear
So too the flag I hold dear
And as I tilled the soil
My blood began to boil
For I have become a sinner
Who has no King but Caesar

Where did the little boy go
Who believed in good and not evil
Now he sees hate without reason
And love lost without a season
As he walks in the desert sand
A soldier and a prophet await
For what is man without fear
Or faith without scars in his hand?
she didn't know where he was going,
how long he'd be gone,
only that she needed to wait
for his homecoming,
to watch for the letters he promised,
believing the sharp angina pains
stabbing her chest might
**** her during another long absence

he'd pick her up like she
weighed nothing,
willing herself to be lighter
so that he wouldn't put her down,
straddling her boney legs
around his waist,
inhaling the scent of Grey Flannel
evaporating off his soft skin

the mystery of where he went
every six months or so
was made insignificant,
"to work", as if it was just
a drive over the mountain
from Ft. Shafter instead of
some jungle Walter Cronkite
talked about on television

his letters came in red, white and blue
envelopes from APO's and HQ's,
pictures of dragons and snakes
drawn on the margins
doing nothing to alleviate
a seven year old's insecurities

then mother went to volunteer
at Tripler's burn ward
her small mind beginning
to comprehend he was in the
same place the "Uncle Sam Wants You"
signs wanted men

Walter called it the war in Vietnam
adult conversations she'd overheard
said it was big, but the sound of it
made her body shrink into a ball

Written by Sara Fielder © Sept 2014
David Ehrgott Oct 2015
I spent my childhood in the nineteen sixties
Watching Walter CRONKITE
Warning Adults to
not let their children watch tonight's graphic
footage of the Vietnam War

It was quite disturbing
To this day
I can not erase the image
of that man on his knees
being shot in the head
execution style
in the street

And the other footage
of the reporters
on the front lines

Before man walked on the moon
Supposedly

Before I was ten

There should be a class action lawsuit for
EVERYONE Who was shown that footage
No one should have had to see that

But ezra pound said it best
War is made to create debt

Well, Let's take legal action now
to settle that debt

But, who do you sue?
Not Walter.  He tried to warn us.
The media?
The country?
The idiot who started the whole thing?
The t. v. station or network?
Who do you sue?

Is it a debt that could ever be' settled?

How do you correct the wrong?
How do you settle this debt?

For if there were no debt
There would be no banks

Why would one have to borrow
If he didn't owe

America, stockpile your banks
You owe everyone in this country
Fifty years and over
PLUS INTEREST

For causing undue stress
to so many
Give them guns , have them come back
tortured , depressed and disabled
Label them heroes , pay no regard to their
high suicide rates , give them hometown
parades and let them fend for themselves
in the American rat race
Vietnam Part II is being played out for all to see                                                    
via the internet , laptops have replaced Walter Cronkite ,
Arlington is slowly being filled week after week
Color guards bring cheers at sporting events , our
young people are flatlining on our countries streets
A painful Presidential election is coming our way ,
tear gas and rubber bullets on Cleveland's streets ,
The violence will spread from city to city
Watch with fear as 1969 plays out once again
Copyright May 8 , 2016 by Randolph L Wilson * All Rights Reserved
Recalling collusion with ink stained hands and a chocolate smeared face , playing "Vietnam" with a  broomstick broadcast in black and white , no blood in sight Mr. Cronkite , no blood tonight* .....
Copyright June 17 , 2016 by Randolph L Wilson * All Rights Reserved
Zeeb Apr 2021
Dumb, dumb Daddy what has happened to you?
Are you the same man that I once knew?

See the little girl, napping on your shoulder?  That's me.
In your undershirt - the smell of Old Spice, and your chest-hair, some of it gray, forges in me a warm and valued memory - peace, security, love.  Forever with me!

But dumb, dumb Daddy, is your mind at its end?
Do you actually believe, this **** that you send?

Walter Cronkite was worthy of your trust, and you were safe in listening.
Your parent’s and grandparent’s truth-telling and faith in humanity have instilled outdated notions.
Has being reared in a more honest time rendered you this gullible?
Shall we blame that?
No one knew you carried such liability, that your attention and beliefs could be so easily captured, that you may lack common sense even.  You can't tell truth from falsehoods, or spot a demagogue.

I once thought you so smart.
Oh
Dumb, dumb Daddy, do you get out of the rain?
Did Schlitz, “hi-*****” and cigarettes ****-up your brain?

Stay away from your computer - it's not from your time
Get a flip-phone
Try to come home
Victor D López Jun 2019
Turning off the IDIOT BOX.

Can’t stand the inane WISHY-WASHY CHIT CHAT,
Or the HANKY PANKY of extremists on the left and right,
Who ladle out FAKE NEWS-laced Kool-Aid,
To their ZONKED-OUT viewers who gleefully consume it,
While nodding through glazed eyes.

It’s OPEN SEASON on the truth by DIRT BAGS,
With journalism degrees inventing rather than reporting the news.

Bring back old-school broadcasters like Cronkite and Brinkley,
Who personally leaned left and right but reported the news.

When news and commentary are no longer indistinguishable,
In all the networks, I’ll tune back in.

Meantime, BUG OFF and GOOD RIDDANCE!
I posted this today at AllPoetry.com in response to a ten-double-word challenge where a poem had to be written using all ten double-words capitalized in the poem. Did not take much thought . . . :)
Ken Pepiton Apr 2019
Startle response! Wake--

When danger is ante
cipated,0h
--0n
lego-h-overedge aver
age
verbage re sighin'

clinging vines from debunked strings and
threads twisted wit'em.

Assume, if ye may or plea or will as
ye wont, pray means ask.

That's all.
Here, wit'afewmisstook aitches and spaces:
here is what we got,

a fresh secret story, un concerning anything you
believed you believed of/from/about idea ifify ie able ity ness

Reason requires response, Will Robinson.
Hidden persuaded, almost,
but lost...

Really,
what sacrifice bought
young John Carson to sublimnal
top 0'the mind status,
for the first two tv
generations?

Who do you trust? Carson's tv game
show debut, aimed at after school,
junior high, latch key,
wait staff on swing shift or graveyard,
the entire set of doin' nuttin'
'round Tea, fancy goin'

head t' head wit' Mickey Mouse Club,
on all the UHF stations out west.

It's 1957, who do you trust?
Time's man o'the year,
The Hungarian Freedom Fighter Idea,
the first stiffed
equal-value re
belicose cold war victim
of the famine for the grammar
of kindness and good sense
associated with DNA,
little green apples, puppy dogs,the
straight up command to love them that hate ye,
enemies and other words for folk
who would just as soon **** you
as hear one more word
about peace.

VOG,
words were scrambled,
christic crypt vacuum
tube
signal to noise ratio, caliber calculater pro
jection on to the rerewall o'yeardamnedbrain,

VOG Cancel
Bozo. This ad will **** for us. We can own the
'earts and minds of every grammar 'ater ever.

Since Babel, since Eber 'is 'ebrew ef-
fective, fervent...strainer at jots and tittlishit
self.

This ad makes mistook rules po'man laughable,
punch'n'judy'ishit:

Whom
do you trust, the grammarian so like so many
Deweyish proguess
edumacated teachers, you had this teacher,

squint, wrinkle nose, tight jibbs
frameless wire rimmed specs, a greying bun,

flower print dress wit' the weest bit o'lace,
lipless snide corrector's face. A trope archetype,
heroes re
bel
on demand, that was the plan. It
started with

AN AD. Who do you trust? Black and white,
Here's Johnny standing under the billboard,
y'know,
for the show, standin' like *******, shoulders
shrugged, palms up, elbo's bent

(contenintal suit, note the skinny tie, why?)
Who do you trust? Innocent grin, wordless
"Who knows?" or "knew"?

Whodjewtrust, in 1957? Cronkite, nicht wahr?
See the USA in the USA

in yo' Chevrolet, ole!
Yew should try Ritalin, for pep.

Take Serutan tonight, and sleep, safe and restful,
sleep, sleep sleep

VOG (Scourby) and, remember Serutan is Natures,
spelled backwards. Cue the choir,

safe and restful, sleep, sleep fade away

----
Where were you in 1962? Off t'college,
watchin' Johnny of Johnnies,

Johhny Quest, Johnny Lighting, Johnny Carson on

Tonight, there's more...
after the news, the dayroom in the dorm,

this is whence the quips in the quad were to be
sharpened wit'

fashion able ible tips, to fit the Esquire *** Hef
uniform dress code of mutual hidden

persuadeds.

Some souls were spared the spread of the
original tv virus, VHF, couldn't penetrate
the canyon...never subjected
to Howdy Doody,
our brains were spared the
complexes planted via the sit
com cowboy war subplot
phase of novus ordo
secluremishitistcal
experiments in
alientated
mind control.
We lived in the desert, in a place

a lot like Oscar's Oasis,
a wordless Korean Cartoon
set in a desert much like mine. On Netflix, 2019.

I did not watch the mandated ten thousand hours,
even when the deadline for party affiliation

mental ascent was ex
tended, circa 1985, pre-
tending to be a measure of de
fencing public universities from the
effect of rock and roll,

since about 1964

with folk like Dylan and Baez and Hallelujah
Jubilee and Jambalaya on d'Baya,
Herb's brass on the Baja, where all the girls
work it,
like 'otel Kali phornia, sticky,

sweet, like a taste of Honey. Mr.Bond,
meet Miss
Galore. OH GOD, in the car from the speaker
she heard the idea the meaning

in the name, oh god, she squeezed my hand.

Honor Blackman plays that role, she whispered.

Trust me. It's a good plan. We got these kids!

Mom and dad just won the war, had six kids in five years,

Levittown di'n't work out, couldn't go home,
mixed marriage, from the war.

Things hap, cajun catholic wannabe aerospace engineer spy guy,
lands in Alamagordo and environs,
Summer 1944.

Here we are, Equinox, loosing season, 2019,

so some prayers were for real.

Red somthin'r'other butterflies are riding a rare breeze
from the south to the north through my
makepeace home. My peace I give,
he said,
all that passed is unexplored, take all the time

you can imagine.

My wife knows the names of those butterflies,
that's part o'm'peace. Knowin' she cares to remember
such improbably beautiful things;

soul possessed in patience, is she.

footnote 1: Despite Ciba’s efforts to market Ritalin as a ‘pep pill’, the stimulant failed to become a best-seller.  But that was not the end of Ritalin’s story.  As early as the 1930s, psychiatrists working at a children’s psychiatric institution in Rhode Island, USA had noticed that stimulant drugs could have a positive effect on the academic performance and behaviour of troubled children.  Although few psychiatrists took notice of these observations at the time, by the late 1950s, escalating concern about the educational abilities of American children during the height of the Cold War encouraged Ciba to consider a new application for their drug: underachieving schoolchildren.  They received approval from the American Food and Drug Administration (FDA) to market Ritalin to children in 1962 and, almost immediately, it became a best-selling drug (google it I didn't write the footnote pard but I forget where I got it.)
Forgive the flood, but my dear reader, I rode this wave when I noticed you on the page, in life's book. I did not know your name.
Kurt Philip Behm Mar 2017
Joplin was to Southern Comfort,
  what Hendrix was to smack
Morrison was to masquerade,
  what Dylan never lacks

Woodstock was to 69,’
  what music was to time
Saigon was to those who stayed,
  what Auschwitz now reminds

Kennedy was to hopes and dreams,
  what nightmares were to some
Castro was to leftist thugs,
  what cymbals are to drums

Kissinger was to Nixon
  what Canada was to home
Dr. King to civil rights,
  what kings are to their thrones

Walter Cronkite was to news,
  what intention was to fact
Altar boys were to Priests,
  what pretzels are to snacks

58,000 were to die,
  what a wall was to proclaim
58,000 were to all,
  what conscience is to shame

(Villanova Pennsylvania: March, 2017)
This is the sunken city
which once
was the centre of gravity

we moved on a bed of expressions
to find faint suggestions

tornado's were woken to take us
to the eyes that dared then to watch us
and the catch was
the gate locked behind us
and alone now where no one
can find us.

I swallowed her whole in the moonlight
where the day followed night followed
Cronkite,

dead television
news in revision
the white house a
light house
when the candle goes out.
Cronkite did the talking.
Nixon started walking.

Through the rabbit's ears
we saw it all.

Windows down by cranking.
Kids still got a spanking.

Food stamps were on paper
not on cards.

Pryor told the jokes.
Everybody smoked.

Man things were different
way back then.

— The End —