My War

Also a sestina, but not a perfect one, formulaically.

My War

It was during my war,
where I last saw her,
standing in light,
a tunnel so bright,
there were others as well,
just who I could not tell.

Who could I tell
this tale of my war,
shining a light
on conditions so bright.
Who’d believe I saw her,
and heard her as well?

There was never much light
in the Vietnam war,
reporters were bright,
but they could not tell
of the pain I absorbed, well
after I saw her.

Day and night were both bright,
the bombs casting their light,
in the hell that was war,
madness yes, but love as well,
for seeing my mother, her
face I could tell

radiated the light,
the truth of her
words burning bright
as best I could tell,
in the midst of my war
sending me back to be well.

These words I can tell,
long after my war,
it was my mother, long dead, her
message of light,
from the tunnel so bright,
to live my life well.

In war I last saw her
in light, shining bright,
so I might as well tell.

Me and My Knee

A sestina is a poem of six 6-line stanzas, the lines ending in the same six words, but never in the same order, followed by three lines which include the first two words, then the next two, then the final two. It is a difficult form, maybe more of a math problem than a poem, and there need not be rhyme, iambic pentameter, or any other such familiar phrasing. I wrote this one just before a knee arthroscopy.


Me and My Knee

It is far too soon for this night,
the one before the surgery
to mend my damaged knee.
It is nothing, really, to fear,
at least say my friends and doctor
alike, though friends have no need of his skill.

Rather than good luck, I’d prefer good skill
as their best wish on this too-soon night,
and also good night, sleep tight to my doctor,
who’s traits magical must become surgical
in early morning’s light. In truth, I fear
the thirst and hunger of the fast more than the swollen knee.

I’ve live so long with this wounded knee,
still mine because of a corpsman’s skill,
decades ago, amidst battlefield fears,
in a screaming black night,
swept by chopper to surgery,
surrounded by fatigued nurses and doctors.

Over forty years, so many doctors,
all amazed at the state of my knee,
few believing that field surgery
could be performed with such skill,
while rockets rained down in the din of night,
all of the medics containing their fear.

It’s tangible and real, the matter of fear,
mastered by the wills of both patient and doctor.
No point in allowing the sounds of the night
to betray the focus on arms, feet and knee.
What mattered was using all available skill
in dim-lit, earth-trembling surgery.

I knew it was only a first step, this surgery.
There’d be plenty of rehab and pain yet to fear.
I had to rely on the nerve and the skill
of the nurses and corpsmen and doctors
now near, as they thought perhaps I’d lose the knee
as I drifted at last into sleep’s unseen night.

I awoke with both legs after that night of surgery.
Feeling both knees took most of the fear.
Tomorrow, another doctor’s skill will take the rest of it.

Sadaam’s Statue Falls, 4.9.03

Sadaam’s Statue Falls, 4.9.03


Three weeks ago,
I felt an odd guilt
about invading Iraq.

Today, I am grateful,
that scores of humans,
for at least a few hours,
would not be torn apart by
screaming metal,
searing fire.

Today, I am sad,
sad for the loved ones
in San Diego,
in Karbala,
in Twenty-Nine Palms,
inTikrit,
in Des Moines,
in Al Kut.
I am sad
for the children of Basrah,
released from five years’ captivity,
only to rejoin a world of
looting and vengeance.
I am sad for
the well-meaning anti-war souls
whose legitimacy can be somehow
toppled like a statue.
I am sad
for the young warrior
who will be the last to die in Iraq.
What will be his name?
What will be her legacy?

Today, I am worried.
I am worried this pyrrhic victory
will inspire more preemptive strikes,
when what are needed are
preemptive education and
preemptive medicine and
preemptive food.

Three weeks ago
I feared that,
for one modern-day,
Arabic-speaking FDR,
the first dropped bomb
marked our own day of infamy.

Today, I am reminded
again, yet again,
how no one
hates war more
than the warrior

Today, I am aware,
once more, yet once more,
that wars are fought
by our children,
and by theirs.

Today, I know
that thousands will die,
more will be crippled,
and then, yes then,
there will be
another war.

Today, I am alone,
trying to not think of it,
any of it.

Shared Quarters

Shared Quarters

I awoke
to see
an NVA
or was it
really a VC?

He was
only
seven feet away
or was it
only three?

He was
badly hurt,
wrapped and tied,
or was he
actually free?

He was
obviously
a prisoner,
or was it
truly me?

He was
suddenly
convulsing,
dying now,
or trying to get free?

I awoke
to see
my enemy,
and he
was simply me.

4,000+ Deaths Ago

April 9, 2003


Three weeks ago, I felt guilt about invading Iraq.

Today, I felt grateful that, at least for a few hours, scores of humans would not be torn apart by screaming metal and searing fire.

Today, also, I am sad. I am sad for the loved ones in San Diego and Karbala, in Twenty-Nine Palms and Tikrit, in Des Moines and Al Kut. I am sad for the children of Basrah, released from five years’ captivity, only to rejoin a world of looting and vengeance. I am sad for the well-meaning anti-war souls whose legitimacy can be somehow toppled like a statue. I am sad for the young warrior who will be the last to die in Iraq.

Today, to, I am worried. I am worried that apparent “victory” will reinforce the doctrine of preemptive strike, when what are needed are preemptive education and preemptive medicine and preemptive food.

Three weeks ago I feared that, for one modern-day, Arabic-speaking FDR, the first dropped bomb perhaps marked our own day of infamy.

Today, I am trying not to think of it – any of it.