"nva" poems
night
under jungle canopy
was dark as a cave.
at twilight
you crept
two hundred meters out
from the perimeter.
you and another.
the radio,
two claymore mines,
M-16s-three clips each-
half a dozen grenades,
pop-up flares,
and four canteens of water.
fear fed thirst.
you opened two packets
of instant coffee,
spilled them into your mouth,
washed them down,
and felt your head jitter
all night long.
there was always sound.
jungle rats or snakes,
maybe even tigers,
or NVA probing the lines.
if there were many of them,
you sent up the flares,
fired into the dark,
detonated the claymores,
and were the first to die.
(I was M-60 machine gunner with the Ninth Marines in South
Vietnam, 1968. LP is a military acronym for ’listening post.’ )
Jan 29, 2010
Jan 29, 2010 at 5:20 AM UTC
For personal reasons,
that name conjures
in my mind only
images of war.
Yelling rebels,
teaming Lakota,
Nipponese samurai,
stealthy NVA.
Perhaps
it is time
to declare
a Peace Moon
and learn
to live quietly,
bathed in its
silken shining.
~mce
Sep 27, 2015
Sep 27, 2015 at 4:01 PM UTC
The little brown diary lay on
Doan's chest its final restingplace.
Operation Indiana. Quong Nai province.
NVA guerrila. ****** smoke and sticky fire.
VC local yokals
Dipping pungi sticks for effect.
Hochi minh trickle trail.tunnel citties
Criscrossing our lines. Bouncing betty saying high
To your pecker.
The pictures in his dairy makes him. Human
Against my will. Hard I just killed their father.
Two grown women now with an open question
Relentless and tough. Cunning and rugged.
The diary looks back at me the blood
Splatter gives it a face that weeps
And sneers
the answer lies
Back there.
Close the circle
Dec 11, 2012
Dec 11, 2012 at 12:34 AM UTC
There are few moments when I believe in god.
Not necessarily because of moments of piety.
But right when I hear a remote jet sound of those
Big Ugly Fat ******* eight engines a piece
I realize god’s fury becomes a reality.
The BUFFs finally reach their prey
And I hear someone yell
“Boy today sure is the day!”
As we hide our heads in the bunkers
The ****** ground quivers and shivers
If I had looked up into the mighty blast
I would have seen the scorched red earth
Scarred deeply with the big ***** of fire
But the sounds and trembles are enough for me
Because what needed to be scarred was the ground, not me
The blasting jet thunder and the deadly steel rain
Should be enough to blow away Charlie
The concussions alone would waste them
So we’ve all thought
Only to be proven wrong the next day by the NVA
I sometimes dream of driving my Camaro back home
Because it reminds me of what’s left in my soul
So I tried to talk with my best buddy Jim McCole
But as I glance into his head with a big black hole
I realize once again this is hell with no parole
Nov 27, 2017
Nov 27, 2017 at 9:45 PM UTC
The Bishop of DaNang
In Grateful Memory:
Pierre Marie Pham Ngoc Chi,14 May 1909 – 21 January 1988
What did he think of his Americans
Some six or so, just kids, in jungle greens
Receiving from his hands the Sacrament
Of Confirmation there, among Marines
A Quonset hut chapel in the morning sun
Blistering the steel in its passage to noon
Anointing all with gun oil and with sweat
“Do you reject Satan and all his works…?”
The Word and his blessings, a group picture -
And what did the NVA think of him?
Jul 6, 2017
Jul 6, 2017 at 7:03 PM UTC