Veteran Life

 

Being the only veteran in a room

is like speaking a foreign language,

or thinking in one, as you seek

another who lets you feel understood.

Most of the veterans I know

don’t talk too much about it,

especially those who went to war,

but I have learned that

the more you reveal your story,

speak or write of your experience,

the more you heal.

There’s a weight in keeping it too close,

but when one wants to talk about it,

what does one do?

Perhaps, find another veteran,

knowing we are all comrades,

better because we served,

ones who answered the call,

be it in war or peace.

Maybe attend a discussion group,

one led by one with experience.

In some cases, go one on one

with a professional, 

someone who’s heard it all.

Most of us don’t look 

like we need this, but

most of us also don’t look like

those recruitment posters,

“The few, the proud…”,

but we feel like it,

even amid painful recollections.

We know war is fought by kids,

too young to drink,

too young to vote,

not too young to die.

They’re trained, schooled in battle,

but there’s no sure way to prepare them

for what it’s like the first time 

one fires on another person,

and there’s no good way to prepare them

for when they return to civilian-hood,

taking the long journey back,

hearing bumper sticker thank you’s,

well meant but awkward to hear,

leaving them unsure how to respond.

There are manuals for how to create soldiers,

but few directions for creating veterans,

why the VA, Legion, DAV, VFW matter,

the places where the bond can be recaptured,

difficult memories shared.

I’m grateful I survived to have earned the right

to tell my brothers and sisters that I get them,

to acknowledge that they all experienced

Dangerous Duty.

They trained for it, lived it, survived it,

and relive, remember or try to forget it.

Today I welcome them home,

tell them, whether I have met them or not,

I appreciate, honor and love them.

Alive Day

 

October 27 is my Alive Day, 59 years after death came alongside me, took several of my buddies, but didn’t claim me. Oh, it tried. It tried hard, even sending me floating above my corporeal self on the battlefield, having me meet with my mother, dead some nine years earlier, as she gave me directions to go back, and to live a good life. Alive Day is not a formal event, not so much celebrated as experienced, mostly by wounded veterans, but also by anyone who has had a brush with infinity. While not formal, it is a very real thing, the date one might have died or been killed, but wasn’t. I write about it, spend this day in reflection, as part of my own ongoing healing process, as my never-ending effort to be content when my actual transition occurs. I support veterans, by submitting and donating to the Veterans Voices Writing Project, donating to the Wounded Warrior Project, being a life member of Disabled American Veterans,  and I urge veterans to make special note of their own Alive Day. 

Most combat veterans, if they are like me, spent every day after their most important war - the one which happened to them - trying to forget what they saw, what they did. I learned, after years of denial, that it is healthier, more transformative, to remember. This is a very personal day, not one for speeches, for toasts, for “thank you for your service” comments. It is a day for self-thanks, for contemplation, a chance to listen to one’s internal whispers of gratitude and appreciation. This is a day to allow the memories to be heard, and shared if the sharing might contribute to the Good. This is how one heals and goes forward, in honor of fallen comrades, in appreciation for opportunities to be of service, living gratefully in the life one was given.

Exactly 59 years ago, some young corpsman risked his life and saved mine at Con Thien, at 0230, October 27, 1967. I wish I knew his name, could thank him in person, but I have never forgotten him, pulling me to safety and morphine until gunship helicopter Puff and the medivac chopper arrived to carry me off, many hours later. I would so like him to know that I lived a good life, made a difference to many in need, and aim to be a true and steadfast friend.

Daniel George, 3/3/3, Third Battalion, Third Regiment, Third Marine Division Alumnus. Semper Fidelis. 

Tribute poem

 At Poetic Bloomings, we looked back at an older prompt and selected a line from another poet as inspiration.

From Michael Grove’s piece of truth, “Reap What You Sow”, 

I selected “An act of kindness is a start.”

Getting By

It is a great gift

when someone is

there for you,

peaceful and present.

Grand gestures 

are not necessary,

small kindnesses 

in action being

far more helpful.

I”ll cherish the smallest

act of good will over

the biggest promise. 

Some moments 

may be dark,

but the shining glow

from a friend who is

a Lightworker

makes all times bearable.

Lifespan

 

There is a Santa Rosa plum tree,

which I planted on

the 118th day of 1975,

over a septic field,

in the more-or-less-an-acre 

at the end of Hyland Way,

a cul-de-sac 

on Sonoma Mountain,

in Penngrove, California.

I have visited there, 

seen that tree still lives,

quite spindly at 51, 

well past its plan,

somewhat like me at 82,

yet we both still bear fruit.

I am certain that part of who 

I am is due to that old tree

and part of that tree is due to me.

Camouflage

 The prompt was “veil”, and the chalk was to not use that word…

Back in the day,

draped in the trappings 

of a warrior,

he fought alongside 

his buddies, his comrades,

not free of fear,

of course not,

but then, none of them were.

Later in life,

after surviving the suffering,

given the mantle of heroism

by others, never himself,

he learned to tread softly 

in this life,

becoming a true hero to the trees,

the lakes and rivers,

the very earth itself. 

In the face of

strong opposition,

he earned the cloak of humility,

practicing loving care, empathy,

harmlessness, learned

it was possible to be 

truly brave, strong,

a healer more often than not,

smothering anger and bitterness 

with compassion and tenderness,

rejoicing in each new day. 

Elusive

 

Walking on our street, 

named Adorno for

no reason known to me,

down to the cul-de-sac,

turning then in a broad 

semi-circle path, 

then strolling, slowly,

uphill to the stop sign, 

only to return home,

where it all started.

This is what I recall 

from last night’s dream,

a little ashamed to

not have written it down

at awakening, when 

I might have saved

more details. 

I could take 

that same walk again, 

but it wouldn’t have those

dreamlike feelings. 

Hoping now for 

an early sleep tonight,

maybe a rerun,

this time more 

quickly captured.

Willow Wisp

 

Had I missed this turn of the wheel,

what matter?

Someone else would have gone to war,

another might have written peace haikus,

many more could have done my work,

it is all simply chopping wood, 

it is all no more than carrying water,

it is not mysterious,

the thing we call our life.

It is said that,

sitting under the boddhi tree,

Siddahartha Gautama saw,

not hundreds of figs on the ground, 

but thirty-thousand past lives.

The boddhi itself requires 

three thousand years to form its shape,

and humans have but a moment

to find meaning, even when they look.