"viet" poems
The Viet Nam era was a witches brew.Mission creep in Saigon
The evening news brought the ****** trips stumbling into
my TV dinner, kicking over my Tang.
Bouncing Betty went bang
Beans and ***** out the can.
Guys in my age bracket knew it was safe cause 18 was the magic Number.
RESPECT
Simon and Garfunkel ,The godfather of soul.
What we.
Had Here.
Was.
Failure to Communicate.
We were reaching for the stars with one hand and
squeezing of rounds with the other. Bobby was in the crossfire
Martin would retire,
I remember.
Guys slinking back home with broken minds
Baby killers all. No love ,No jobs. COMBAT FATIGUE. PTSD Came later.
Got a monster habit, Nose running of like a racetrack rabbit.
Oh yeah Asian Strain Gonorrhea.
Penicillin
Penishmillin. WTF
Hendricks.
Sep 27, 2012
Sep 27, 2012 at 3:25 AM UTC
by
rgpage
in a latter year of my third decade
my twenty seventh to be sure.
i was young and strong, not bad on looks
still seeking my maiden pure.
in my earlier years i’d traveled the globe
the compass far and wide.
i went to war on foreign shores
for uncle sam, but not our nation’s pride.
viet nam took many lives
and ruined many more,
from the outset waiting my long
trip home i felt so insecure.
in those few years my way was nye
i traveled from bar to bed.
with whom not knowing nor caring why
to block the demons in my head.
i lived this way for six long years
not seeing life and life not seeing me.
anti-war riots and widow’s tears
a mother’s cry and father’s plea.
six empty years past the stench of war,
and a life now gone that i once knew.
a stranger then to all once loved
and friend to very few.
now looking back it was then i feel
God saw i had no worth
for this was when i first met you,
an angel come to earth.
it was then you came into focus
you were all that i could see.
you gave your love and took me in
and brought out the best in me.
now forty three years have passed since that day
you came into my life.
i still see you now w/ that young man’s eyes
when i took you for my wife.
Dec 2, 2011
Dec 2, 2011 at 11:53 AM UTC
The Slow-Bullet
by rgpage
In the early days of Viet Nam
the American draft was going strong.
Young men in their prime of life,
were forced and herded into world strife.
A generation of America’s best, were
then brought home and laid to rest.
Wall Street smiled, the money flowed
the “fat Cats” called it money owed.
In towns and cities big and small,
families waited, worried, and cried.
Groups appeared, dissention grew.
"Mothers grab your son’s and hide."
There were those who felt their duty strong,
to take the leap toward blood and strife
with McNamara herding them along.
Known to the grunts as “Mac the Knife.”
The madness grew to a global scale
with those that were for and those against.
In bombing, selective targets became the norm
keeping the rest of the world from harm.
With those who didn’t feel their duty strong,
a path to the north they took.
They packed what they could, burned their cards
and paused for one last look.
With this some parents felt relief,
while others felt the disgrace. Of seeing
the grief so many went through after
having their futures erased.
The war took over 58,000 American lives;
men and women both, (before we flew away).
Wall Street got their wages for blood, with
broken lives in pain, many thousands more would pay.
With thousands more that were yet to be lost, after returning home.
Physically and mentally scarred, even those seeming
perfectly whole. Then saying good-by to the ones they loved
in their own special way. They stoically waited for the slow-bullet to come to finally take them away…
Suicide has taken 3 or 4 times the lives than the war took. My heart cries for every last one of them…Robert G. Page, Viet Nam Vet. ‘66-’67.
Jul 8, 2014
Jul 8, 2014 at 2:48 PM UTC
They were not interested in the forests.
Or how many Asians died?
Nam Viet was a restaurant
Open from 8am-11pm each day.
And summertime in Hue,
means cheap ***** and handmade suits.
All around the girls in golden tight dresses,
who can hardly walk in their six inch heels.
Sell cheap cigarettes from table to table.
Always with a smile and a look at their *******
On trips to Hanoi and Hoi An,
the code to Vietnam's literary treasure.
They asked thin questions with no light
“What about the Women Andrew”
“What about the nightlife and the girls”
“Do you think they’re ****
"How expensive are they?"
Someone in ** Chi Minh City asked me
"Why do people think like this?"
I guess it is easy, if ugly is all you know
Calling to nothing, and the fall of the future.
Aug 16, 2018
Aug 16, 2018 at 5:02 AM UTC
(for Nietzche, who cowers behind art.)
The world calls the conquered ******
to remember that the sun every night yearns
to rise, to rise, to rise
when there is no guarantee, no promise, no sure thing.
Yet still it yearns
to rise, to rise, to rise.
The world called Canaanites ******
while they traded and toiled along the shores
of land promised to the aged heretic of Sumer,
whose wife could give only love.
The world called Hebrews ******
while they raised Pharoah tombs
Provided respite from the eastern chariots
Stubborn in refusal of the living gods
Drinking only Eloheim's bitter grape
That provides brief respite from his decrees
When delving deep in one's cups.
The world called Britons ******
When flogged Boudicea fought and fought and finally fell
To Roman spear and gladius
When Angles and Saxons raided then stayed
When Cromwell climbed the pale cliffs
The world called the Iberians, Gauls and Teutons ******
when Caesar crossed the Rubicon
Pax Romana for Citizens born
Land for the wealthy, voting rights too
Taxes and tithes from their toil.
The world called the Khoikhoi of South Africa ******
From the VOC to fatal Apartheid
Up rose a man
The heart of the land
A man named Nelson Mandela.
The world called the Viet Minh ******
from Can Vong to Dien Bien Phu
'till they slogged howitzers above
to reign Napoleonic terror below.
And to them it was just
The American War
After the world called them
Vietnamese.
The world calls the conquered ******
to remember that the sun every day yearns
to rise, to rise, to rise
When there is no guarantee, no promise, no sure thing
yet still it yearns
to rise, to rise, to rise
'though it never watches its own rising
undoing raiment of fading embers
swimming naked in the royal blue
bathing all with daily newborn naked glory
chasing the celestial tidal tease
that seems to wander where it please
reminding that all are born free
but can grow into ignorance
and be called ******
Seek truths
that hold in unity;
that provide nourishment
beneath the lash
allowing one
to rise, to rise, to rise.
Jul 15, 2019
Jul 15, 2019 at 9:01 AM UTC
" I ran into a homeless man with a bag filled with
empty soda bottles and cans.
They amounted to fifty-five cents, i
took them out of his hands.
I saw the anger in his eyes, as he began to
shout out his why's.
I quickly told him. "I'm here to help."
The fear went away, as he started to cry.
We talked on the side of the road. A
lost soul from the Viet-Nam war.
I too am a Vet. He now felt very comfortable
with every word i said.
I then opened the door to my car, asked
him to hop in, telling him were not going
very far.
I noticed his fingers, tanned from nicotine stains.
So i drove him to the nearest 7-11 asking what
was his favorite cigarette brands?
Kools was his answer.
We left, and drove to Mc Donald's to buy
lunch.
We filled our stomachs, he lit a cigarette, and
said. "Thank you so, so much."
I asked if there's somewhere i can drop you
off? He replied." No, the outdoors are my home.
i'll be fine, and you Michael. You are one of a kind."
Aug 28, 2016
Aug 28, 2016 at 12:31 AM UTC
The President is writing in ALL CAPS today
And that’s all right because caps are okay:
They keep his head warm in the winter’s cold
He has ‘em in colors: red, white, and gold
And an old one in green from Viet-Nam
Where he was a-serving 1 of his Uncle Sam
Only he didn’t, but that doesn’t matter
He’ll dodge the issue with bluster and natter
Be grateful he sports his red MAGA cap
To cover his head, ‘cause it’s full of
hair
1 allusion to Kipling's "Gunga Din"
Aug 1, 2018
Aug 1, 2018 at 4:01 PM UTC
He floated like a butterfly,
Stang like a bee –
The one and only
Muhammad Ali.
“I’m The Greatest”, he always said,
20th Century Sports Personality,
Put his rivals to bed.
Yes, he WAS the Greatest, that’s for sure.
Above the rest by a massive score.
Faster than a hummingbird,
Slicker than a snake,
Those quick hands of his
They made opponents quake.
He’d get into bed
Before the light went out.
Rarely a whisper,
Usually a shout.
Like a long-distance runner
Ali had the endurance.
Anyone who fought him
Needed lots of insurance.
Ali was great and didn’t he know it.
A witty speaker and amusing poet.
Some of his lines I’ve used right here:
They had his rivals shaking with fear.
No way would Ali fight the Viet Cong.
For that he merits a Nobel Gong.
He was the champion of the oppressed,
A hero with whom we all were blessed.
He had charisma, way beyond sport.
Ali influenced our every thought.
He’ll call into Hell on the way to Heaven,
To knock out Satan, in round seven.
Paul Butters
Jun 8, 2016
Jun 8, 2016 at 6:57 AM UTC
by
rgpage
I never cried in viet nam,
I just seemed to take it in.
The missing limbs and twisted flesh
friends one day and gone the next.
Was I too young to understand?
And need someone to take my hand?
No mother there to hold my hand
no father there to teach me ways.
To lead me through the day by days.
Just left alone, and alone I stayed
Instead I found my bottle friend
to stay my tears and hide my fears.
Back then “charley” felt they owned the night.
With blusterous thud the mortars hit,
Of saying hi it was “charley’s” way
then to be my friend by day.
From no where came the dragon ship,
and tipping his left wing
as a polite executioner saluting his victim just before unleashing hell.
W/ firery tongue lapping up the earth while mini-guns
roared, eagerly devouring all living things,
leaving “charley” w/ no where to run.
All clear, a small visit w/ my bottle friend
and back to sleep in the alcohol deep.
I was no John Wayne, I didn’t fight the war
a target yes for “charley’s” sights
when the sun gave way to night.
But no, I didn’t fight.
I never cried glossary:
Charley=VC=viet cong=enemy: by day he acted like any of the population, some were even employed around the various bases. But at sundown he would turn…
Dragonship=C-47=2 or 3 several barreled mini-guns mounted on left side of the plane capable of firing a few 1000 rounds per minute each w/ a phosphorous round placed at every 6th round a tracer. At night this made it look like a steady stream of fire coming from the plane, hence the name “dragon ship” or “puff the magic dragon.” To aim the pilot had to dip his left wing and fly in a counter clock wise fashion. Very effective weapon…
Written for a special friend A.S.
Apr 26, 2013
Apr 26, 2013 at 12:00 PM UTC
Are you a Viet-Nam veteran, old man?
Yes, but I don’t own a motorcycle
And do you really love America?
Yes, but I don’t own a motorcycle
And are you saved?
Beats the H** outta me*
Dec 5, 2018
Dec 5, 2018 at 4:12 PM UTC
“...you don’t have to be indoctrinated by these loser teachers
that are trying to sell you on socialism from birth.”
- Donald Trump, Junior
Have at it, little prince - I was called worse
When I came home from Viet-Nam; I’m sure
Your father could tell you about the pain
And now
A usage lesson follows my poor verse:
The relative pronoun following “teachers” should be “who,” not “that.”
I am at your service, your highness.
Feb 16, 2019
Feb 16, 2019 at 10:21 PM UTC
The old man stood there feebly
Beside the crowded street
As the Color Guard came marching proudly by.
Old Glory, she was waving
As he graciously saluted,
And tear drops started falling from his eyes.
His granddad fought in Italy,
His dad against the Germans,
And he was in Viet Nam as a boy,
Everywhere that they had battled
In fox hole or in valley,
They sacrificed their lives
For that Old Glory.
The old man stood there thinking
About how they fought for freedom,
Not only ours, but folks in other lands,
And how the legacy of valor
Flowed through the blood of family
And he prayed for his son in desert sands.
The parade had finally ended
And the Color Guard had passed him,
And he sat upon the grass in solemn thought.
The old man looked around him
At the people with their laughter,
And he was proud for all the battles
He had fought.
Nov 11, 2014
Nov 11, 2014 at 10:35 AM UTC
En prins kom op af vandet
Og kyssede min skygges pande
Og gift blev de også
Min skygge er viet bort
Til skyggedrengen
Dec 4, 2015
Dec 4, 2015 at 5:19 PM UTC
Policy or personal
questions? In the poem Two White Wines
a child adopted from Cambodia
is a thing of beauty, and so she is
as she showed herself to be yesterday. Lovely. However
the poet implies market, i.e. economic, forces brought her
to America
when, as her parents know, it was war,
the sad Vietnam War or the War with America
as I think the Vietnamese remember it.
Honor and bravery
equal courage. Reed Whittemore's poem about
a photo of Viet Cong prisoners, stoic, defiant
under an American officer's boot
expresses admiration for the enemy. Then and now
a dangerous sentiment. Your fellow citizens, denizens
of convenience stores, even your family,
may come to see you as the enemy. Once ostracized,
the other,
not belonging to the loved ones, you're not long for
this world of dew.
**** and ***
Ken says, describes America's culture, not its poets
or jazz. What's worth fighting for?
Your land, your right to be stupid on your land.
Now there is one large land, one people
and many. The vote is a crude, monosyllabic grunt,
no way to express the subtle degrees of experience
our long lives represent. Thus,
it is good, when the family gathers, to talk,
each person speak
of what has been forgotten, forgiven and forgone.
Trading or taking
every family must be tithed or taxed.
Every man who finds his meaning in war
will be pained into wisdom and gentleness.
Who comes home
comes home to a future that bypassed the fighting, or did it?
The oil must be sold,
even Saddam or Osama cannot withhold it.
You can drink your quota of water
and still your heart can ache.
Empire or democracy
of nations? We can choose to be the reigning kings
between the last empire and the next
or we can implement a vision
of collective deliberation.
America the seeing-eye dog,
not America the junkyard dog.
Going question by question
toward predictable, transparent governance.
Example: How can a people become a nation
without resorting to violence or incurring violent reaction?
Aug 10, 2015
Aug 10, 2015 at 8:31 AM UTC
Lawrence Hall 3d
A Poem is not a Helicopter
Lawrence Hall
[email protected]
https://hellopoetry.com/lawrence-hall/
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com
A Poem is not a Helicopter
For Al Duquette
A helicopter is not a poem
A helicopter flies in three dimensions
If all of the systems are fitted just right
Otherwise, it does not fly at all
A poem is not a helicopter
A poem flies only metaphorically
If we rearrange the parts aesthetically
The poem might fly much better than before
One carries our friends wherever they want to go
The other carries our love to our friends
More exposition than I have ever written:
Al is my fellow volunteer in prison and was one of my mentors when I began. I am in awe of him because he flew helicopters with the Air Cavalry in Viet-Nam and then offshore with Petroleum Helicopters Incorporated. He is almost obsessively left-brained in all things and I am an old hippie so we are often on two different metaphorical channels. After some mutual suspicion we came to the realization – because the prisoners pointed it out to us - that in working with a class together we communicate the same ideas in different ways, and so are more effective.
Al sees no point in poetry, although he appreciates the little poems I hand out to the lads as class openers. I think this is because they (the poems, not the prisoners) are short and simple, almost always rhyme, and are mostly Victorian parlour poems which contain a moral lesson and encouragement. This week, while waiting for the guards to bring us the fellows, Al said that prose is made of words and poetry is made of words and in both categories we choose the most effective words, and so what makes a difference. I replied that a poem is not a helicopter, that not all the bits have to fit together in only one way. Prose is indeed a matter of the right words in the right places but that a poem is a matter of even better words placed in even better places (This is not an original thought; I don’t remember where I learned it.). Al accepted my answer, but of course maybe he was merely being polite!
Written by
Lawrence Hall
Sep 20, 2022
Sep 20, 2022 at 3:24 PM UTC
This is a re-post of "All Change at Zima Junction." This morning I turned in my keys after some forty years of herding cattle (metaphorically), seventeen of them with this institution. I am unemployed for the first time since I was five or so and was set to toddling out to the chicken yard every evening to gather the eggs in an old Easter basket. My mother said that the rooster often chased me and made me cry, but I don’t remember that.
And now - what adventure does Aslan have next for me?
The first book I bought upon returning home from Viet-Nam was the Penguin Modern European Poets paperback edition of Yevtushenko: Selected Poems. That 75-cent paperback from an airport bookstall in San Francisco is beside me on the desk as I write.
All Change at Zima Junction
For Yevgeny Yevtushenko, 1932-2017
Everyone changes trains at Zima Junction
Changes lives; nineteen becomes twenty-one
With hardly a pause for twenty and then
Everyone asks you questions you can’t answer
And then they say you’ve changed, and ignore you
The small-town brief-case politician still
Enthroned as if he were a committee -
He asks you what you are doing back here
And then you go away, on a different train:
Everyone changes trains at Zima Junction
“I went, and I am still going.”1
1Yevtushenko: Selected Poems. Penguin,1962
May 6, 2019
May 6, 2019 at 4:10 PM UTC
At home presents are wrapped
Drinking eggnog and spreading cheer.
Got the tree all lit up
It is that time of year.
Toys for Jim and Mary
Robes for mom and dad,
Don't forget Aunt Betty,
It is that time of year.
The house is full of joy,
The're parties everywhere.
The kids are so excited,
It is that time of year.
Say a prayer for Tommy,
He's in Viet Nam this year.
Come on in neighbors,
Let's have a drink of cheer.
There's one more present coming
I helped to fill the body bag.
We shipped it from Saigon,
It is that time of year.
Merry Christmas
Oct 10, 2013
Oct 10, 2013 at 4:13 PM UTC
I lay down on my living room floor
Convinced that the world would end.
A crisis off Cuba with missiles in route.
Yes, I am a Child of Then.
A lady in pink with blood on her dress.
A President shot in the head
I remember where I was exactly that day
Yes, I am a Child of Then.
Police battle Blacks, Watts is in flames
Protests rage on without end.
King is dead at the hand of a bigoted man
Yes, I am a Child of Then.
Camelots heir sought to bind up the wounds
Then Sirhan Sirhan shot him dead.
Bobby bled out on the kitchen tiled floor
Yes, I am a Child of Then.
Asian girl running, naked, on a dirt country road.
A Viet Cong man shot in the head
Fifty Eight Thousand names on a wall
Yes, I am a Child of Then.
May 27, 2012
May 27, 2012 at 10:03 AM UTC
He said in blazing truth
" No Viet Cong Ever Called Me ******
yet in arrogance and hatred they cancelled him for years
for only them knows what's right
He said in just pious light he had a dream
"now is the time to make justice a reality
for all of God's children."
yet in ill wind and oppressive race hate they cancelled him for years
till finally they put a bullet in his head
He said solemnly amidst raging injustices
“No one is born hating another person because of the colour of his skin, or his background, or his religion. People must learn to hate, and if they can learn to hate, they can be taught to love, for love comes more naturally to the human heart than its opposite.”
yet for demanding what was rightly his they cancelled him
for twenty seven hellish years
All I said was
" We gave to you, we borrowed you money when in need
we never troubled or bothered you, yet you broke into our home
and stole our property then you demanded money with threats.
I will not pay a penny and I shall others about your thieving"
In race hate and grievous anger they have cancelled me
ruined my reputation, my career, my marriage and my health
They say this is their democracy
they say this is their justice, their revolution, their people power
For such people power cancelled the lives and future of millions
as they were herded on slave ships never to know homes again
And Economies, resources, treasures and territories were cancelled
out of legitimate owners
for CANCELLING is Might
and the cancellers are gods and goddesses who decides
what is right and what is wrong
I stay cancelled......
Oct 5, 2020
Oct 5, 2020 at 11:20 PM UTC
Lawrence Hall
[email protected]
Poeticdrivel.blogspot.com
Logosophiamag.com
Hellopoetry.com
Fellowshipandfairydust.com
China Beach Spring Break
“Remember we are special guests here;
we make no demands and seek no special treatment.”
-A Pocket Guide to Viet-Nam, 1969
We called it China Beach; I don’t know why
Those wonderful beaches are in Viet-Nam
But apparently no Vietnamese were allowed
Behind OUR wire, along OUR beach, OUR surf
Shabby little snack shacks and latrines
And in his shabby little tower a guard
In his striped helmet and aviator shades
Yawning through his moment in history
The beaches of Fort Lauderdale; I don’t know why -
That’s where the young go now to die
Mar 21, 2023
Mar 21, 2023 at 3:40 PM UTC
What has remained where memory was lost or stolen?
Effacing years replaced what had been felt,
the child adept at stealth and isolation
becoming stranger than the life he left
behind in absence, which was both gone and forgotten.
An echo of a voice in an empty silo rings
because he heard it answer him with words
instead of bruises; the man and child grins.
Remembering selectively, the man
recalls the carcass of a red Case tractor
thigh high in grass; and Viet Nam,
a water buffalo dead in a paddy after
the Viet Cong, like willful parents, spanked
the area with small arms fire. Hell
was neither here nor there but something stank.
The mood rolled over as an odor will
disperse in time, a transient effect
of mind, but an abyss of remembrance haunts
wherever ghosts have congregated, cleft
from the wanton interval of thwarted wants.
Feb 19, 2013
Feb 19, 2013 at 12:53 AM UTC
"We fought in the land of Viet-Nam,
to come home to a world of strangers.
They spit, they cursed, and fingered me,
calling us baby killers.
Our tears never showed,
and our voices were silent.
We stood proud of our country,
so they live free in it.
Years have past, but the wounds still live.
People now salute me, for the life i offered to give."
Mar 23, 2014
Mar 23, 2014 at 6:39 PM UTC
Saw Robert Zimmerman Again
After way too many years Now
Can’t stop my brain from singin’ But
It’s not what it appears See
I’ve always loved his poems And
The way he bends his words Into
Pictures I can see out loud, Illustrations
That I’ve heard.
Forgive me Mr. Zimmerman
If I besmirch your name
I’m not tryin’ to steal your songs from you
And I wouldn’t want your fame
I could never be your equal
Wouldn’t even want to try
Forgive me Mr. Zimmerman
Cross my heart and hope to die.
On the Day the Music died, Guess
That I had just turned five, Then
Five more years slid past me When
The Beatles sang on TV - LIVE. And
Rock and Roll was pushing all the Folks
To center stage, Seems
Viet Nam and Woodstock Were
Currently the rage.
Somewhere we got sidetracked While
The Disco Ball was turnin’ But
I put on a Cowboy Hat, Helped
Johnny sing ‘bout burnin’. So I
Been blowin’ in the wind for Over
Sixty years; Now I’m Tryin’
To write some Poems, ‘Bout my Life and
It appears That my poems Sound
Like all the songs I’ve heard throughout
The Years.
Come and Listen to a Story
‘Bout a guy named Phil
Tried to grab some Glory
But I guess he never will.
For as he fired up his pencil
Over hot and blazing coals
Granny loaded up her shotgun
Shot his poems full of holes.
Good shot, Granny. Right in the heart. Make it Bleed girl.
Y’all Come Back Now, Y’Hear?
PwL 5/5/15
May 5, 2015
May 5, 2015 at 3:48 AM UTC
I still see your smile bloom
In the afternoon sun.
Tall as a corn stalk
Nursed by rain
And gentle winds.
As peas in a pod
Or twin trunks
Of matching shade trees,
A boy and his companion.
We smiled at each other
With toothless relish
While causing harmless mischief.
Fishing in the brook or
Swimming in the lake,
We counted stars on our backs
While taking turns explaining
To each other all of
Life's inscrutable mysteries.
We were best of buddies,
At school and at home.
We shared our lunches
And our "girly" hunches.
We solemnly became "blood brothers"
And swore friendship
Honorable, sublime, eternal...
We were there for each other
With smiles, joys, and
Tender growth one only shares
With the most special of buds.
We were buds, and in due time
We each flowered into our
Respective summers.
We were inseparable,
And I still speak with you
Every day, past the flowers
And the iron gate.
For you will always be my friend,
Even though you could not stay.
J. Sandy
*In memory of a high school friend who died in Viet Nam.
Mar 2, 2013
Mar 2, 2013 at 5:33 PM UTC
Napoleon stayed in Elba,
Pulling his bone apart;
Lenin was in Siberia,
So deep, none heard him ****
Adolph passed his time in Landsburg,
Hardening his heart;
And Don's in Mar-a-Lago
Perfecting his Con art.
He's no Monte Cristo,
Righting perceived wrongs;
He'll fleece all his believers,
In stealth, like Viet Cong.
Jun 16, 2022
Jun 16, 2022 at 9:10 AM UTC