Military

Poems/songs whatever that have to do with the military. whether you're in it, ex military, a military brat, or just from what you've seen, whatever it may be. As an ex-military member i just kind of want to see what everyone comes up with.

Moving Pictures of Soldiers, and Goodbyes

She sits silent, pressing palms together
while her head sky dives
into psalms being said
by a girl in a movie

(talkie, talkie)

about a world going to war.
She peeks through fingers
at the scary part, him already
in an Iraq of thought.

Colorado has given orders
that this is enough warmth
flicking cold grenades
of black,and white clouds

while stripes of rain
weep with this starlet
who's mascara never runs.
But this Army wife doesn't

have the glamour Hollywood does.

She prays to after-blast stains
found, and kissed
on their bed sheets.
She knows this weather well.

Downpours; that's all cinema
thinks a soldier’s life is.
But they don’t know how she, and he
film linens with laughter.

Awakening to an all-clear morning
her anger drizzles, still...
(Yeah, that rain again)
Because the sun is not given

leave to smile until he rucks home
back to her, decored with ribbons
and trinkets from airports
that fell into the itinerary.

Isn't that how it should be done
in pictures shows anyway?

1945 Hale Boys
 
News of the war breaks loose like wildfire
A mother rest on her old wooden porch
Watching as her three sons scuffle in the yard
Reading letters given to her that autumn afternoon
               A drafting
Her fingers tremble at the word
"Just some lousy papers" she thinks
 
Calling those boys in sometime later
They sit and eat supper
                      Not knowing
It's their last as a family together
They notice that something is wrong
That same look in her eyes
 
She looks at those boys of hers
Jack, Richard, and William
Too young, not even twenty
Tears well in her eyes
As she is reminded of her husband
Who was lost at this same war
Not wanting the same for her babies
 
She has no choice
Taking the papers from her apron
She gently places them among the table
 
As dusk settles to dawn
The deuces arive to take them away
       With little rest
They are all in their finest
Mother straightens ther collars
And places sweet kisses on each boys cheek
       For the last time
 
Her heart in the pit of her stomach
       Waving good bye
        To those boys
That night she falls to her knees!
Pleading!! Blaming God!!
But knowing deep down it is'nt his fault
 
Weeks pass and she gets three letters
All from different places and platoons
Reading of the adventures they are having
       She writes back
 
News of the war worsens
    She worries
 Monthes and Monthes
  She hears nothing
 
        Then...
On a morning she will never forget
 She is awakened by four loud knocks
Opening the door, stands three men
   Two western union men
   One preacher
She fells to the old wooden porch
 A steady stream of soft tears
   Streaking down her face
 
       Three letters
But not the ones she was expecting
            K.I.A
            K.I.A
            K.I.A
 As time transends, maturing into years
    There on the porch
    She sits and waits
Knowing they arent comming home
But that she will soon
Be comming home to them

“Silver Slivers”
http://deepundergroundpoetry.com/images/uploads/poemimages/64707.jpg
I remember the day he departed,
second tour for him in the corps,
I did an Army one, it was no fun.
“Stay safe in harm’s way,”  
was the last thing, all I could say.
He hugged my hand for a moment,
felt like an eternity, quickly turned,
disappeared through the departure door.
I refrained from falling to my knees,
knew my best friend Logan,
would not have been pleased
to see me like that.
He was stronger than me, it  
would have been wrong, to  
display such weakness, after  
he had shown his rugged toughness.
So, I held up, like he always did.
Still, a sickly sinking fleeting  
feeling whispered inside me he  
would not make it this time.
Who was I kidding with such
defeating thoughts,  
Logan always pulled through.
But, it became true, he didn’t  
come back home to any of us.
It threw me badly when  
we got the sad news,
all they found were body parts and
the dog tags the chaplain handed me.
My head was in a fog, I wanted to scream.
Logan had won the Silver Star, “V” for Valor.
Wow, some prize for such a precious life.
His death created a lot of strife.
Now, a simple sliver of metal
hangs chained around my neck.
What the heck, it’s the least I can do
for such a close friend, a blood brother,
who used to do the things I still do,
tears flooded my tortured soul.
If I could trade places, I would.
It kills me to see his  
parents at the grave site.
Actually, it’s frightening,  
it could have been me,
lying six-feet under,  
my own parents lives torn asunder.
Thunder rolled in the distance.
Logan could have been  
wearing my sliver of steel in a
world that seems  
so surreal without him.
Rest in Peace, good buddy,
I’ll hold down the fort,
‘till I see you on the other side.

“Jungle Walk"
http://deepundergroundpoetry.com/images/uploads/poemimages/68732.jpg
I zigzagged on point with my shotgun 870,
down thick overgrown jungle trails,
we strolled slower than snails,
gripping vines on our sides,
strangling the bigger plants,
could not see more than three feet.
The air was fiery heat,
it was hard to breath,
sweat dripped endlessly down
my neck, my back, my crack.
It was strangely quiet,
not a single animal sound was heard
until, the flare went up.
Ambush, attack?
I stepped on the wire,
tripped the blast, saw a bright flash,
felt the heat and concussion,
lost my legs instantly in a pink mist,
twisted my back, too.
Three inches lower,
I would have lost my balls.
Man, it hurt, I recall.
Only filtered sun was visible as
I looked up through triple canopy,
their scarred trunks covered with ants.
Radios crackled air support,
brightly colored parrots squawked,
machine guns rattled a manic minute,
suppressed gooks leaving blood trails,
monkey’s screamed, and
the slicks made beautiful
music in the clearing
two clicks away.
I rode a bed on a caravan of brave men,
tourniquets squeezed my missing limbs,
we hauled ass on tiger paths,
darks shadows mocked us with suspicion.
The bloody commotion to our rear, quickly
disappeared into the lush green scenery.
Make no mistake, there was no indecision here,
these rescue guys were on a serious mission to
save what was left of me.
My gut ached,
my head was pounding,
there was a burning pain where
my legs used to be,
I faded in and out of reality,
acutely aware of my mortality,
it was then I realized,
war is such fucking brutality.
Minutes seemed like hours,
frantic voices whispered in slow motion as
they stumbled serpentine up toward the landing zone.
Green smoke covered a chaotic scene, the
Corpsman was hell-bent to see my ascent,
he tapped my steel bucket and,
with a feigned smile,
hollered, “Good Luck Sarge!”
shot me the split-finger Peace Sign and with a thumbs up,
the magical blades whirled me and the others rapidly away.
I replay that scene every night in my dreams.
Sometimes, I wake up screaming,
shrapnel remains imbedded.
My life has been pure hell,
I am an empty shell,
everybody left me for greener grass,
but, I got a Purple Heart.
In my wounded head,
I often wonder if I’m better off dead,
instead, of feeling so damned incomplete,
just looking down at my cold metal feet.

( A man at my Da's funeral told me of the speech Da gave to his unit when they finished Basic, and was about to head to Viet Nam. I ended up writing it down. lol

" We are the kitchen staff. We will have things thrown at us. We will be cussed out. We will be treated like dirtbags. As the paying customers of that fucked up mess hall called Nam, the American public is well within their rights to do these things. BUT ! Here is what I have to say to you ! This is honest work. It is YOU who will hold the line, face the fire, and stand the heat. NOT THEM !
YOU be proud of that fact. It's a great goddamn day to SERVE the American People ! "

So... *chuckling* This one is for Da )  


From The Kitchen Staff -


Stuffing faces
at this table, bitching
about the service
and the condition
of personal precious silver,

gluttony of thought
is still gluttony
and we've never refined
our tastes for fat assed potatoes
that talk too much.

Healthy stalks steam
in the heat of lips constantly moving
Spuds, more starchy
than mushy spaghetti
portion out how
to feel fresh, and crisp
like they think they are.

Yeah, sometimes there is  
a bad taste in this mouth, left
with only this to say.
Do gorge on this buffet, though
you've never sweated the kitchen heat.

But if you are so sure
how to prepare the best meal ?
Put an apron on, or shut the fuck up !
Try eating quietly for once, and don't forget
to say thank you, after being served.

all very good reads!

"Peace Time Casualties"
http://deepundergroundpoetry.com/images/uploads/poemimages/85404.jpg
One of the harshest  
Colorado Front Range  
winters on record
brought the brutal blizzard to town,
the entire post looked like iced Armageddon.
At sixty-below wind chill
even nature took a hiatus.
Not a single bird was in flight that winter morn,
the freaking storm had grounded everything.
But not us, no rest for the weary,  
we all fell in four layers thick,
snot froze on our upper lips,
we crunched the ground below us,
icicles were seen on the power lines.

The big-mouthed Major,  
head of the Battalion control room,
barked out the order with frosted breath,
“Sergeant, take two troops and
crank up those one-one-threes,
it’s SOP (Standard Operating Procedure),
fall out and get it done!”
The icy wind trailed his words behind us,
Someone in 2nd platoon snickered,  
“Glad it’s them not us.”
A-holes.

In short order, the three of us,
Bassett, French and myself
Humvee-traveled on  
black-iced, snow-covered roads,  
camouflaged perfectly with the surroundings,
dangerous to boot, but we made it
with the heater blasting warmth  
just when we got there.  
The motor pool was ghost-like,
not a soul was in sight and
why would there be,
it was so brutally fucking cold.

After some trouble and a bit of SNAFU,
(it took a deuce-and-a-half with slave cable to make it happen),
we got two armored-tracks rolled over,
they began to hum, the ground rumbled.
We were on a roll trying to start the third vehicle
when we heard the first explosion, sounded like incoming.
Immediately, the second crankcase popped open,
looked like a cracked skull oozing thick fluid,
the oil was like butter, nearly frozen.  
Shit, both diesels had blown!
The order was quickly aborted.
Two engines ruined,  
not a bad days work
for a berserk stupid order.

Later, I heard  
the quirky Old Man,
the Field-Grade Mastermind,
Mr. “By-The-Book” Fluharty,
had gotten reprimanded.
The Report-of-Survey was inconclusive,
it was nobody’s fault, just an Act of God.
Sadly, the real casualties were the taxpayers,
who paid the one-hundred-thousand-dollar  
damage tab for the lack of common sense.
This was peacetime expense,  
imagine the real cost of war.

Life of a Sailor

-----

Another night.
Another wave crashing against the metal.
Another cigarette.
Another spark.

Another sleepless night,
Another wasted moment.

Another breath escapes me.
Another beam of moonlight embraces me.
Another soul lives, because of me.

Another breath restores me.

Ungrateful.
Liar. Cheater.
Eyes sewn shut.
Scum of the Earth.

Water.
Filled with shit.
Filled with emptiness
Flowing forever around me.
Trapping me.
Dirty shit water.

To kill the hope inside of me.
To smother that spark,
to drown that breath,
To wipe out the moonlight.

But I won't sink.
Here, I float.
Free, and alone.
I float.

For those I love,
For those to love,
For those worthy few,
I'll float.

Symmetry

Caught up with the God's eye view
from the shit-bird's seat of UH-60,
as the window seat
is really not the place you wanna be
at any kind of altitude
over some big ol' empty space
that lies between where you were
and where the General's got to be
yesterday, today and any
other day of the week

It's not supposed to be cold here
until you like hit outer space,
which I was told we were not going
anywhere near--it is almost kind of
refreshing, to be chattering
shivering for like the first
nine-point-two seconds. Then I
wind up grumbling to myself what
a frigging idiot at the last guy,
who was supposed to be
the General's medic-ala-PSD boy
got invited to do something else
for the rest of the war.

Volun-told is what happens
when they suspect that, after
volunteering to serve your country
with two wars going on--
the same trick is not likely
to be near so effective
the second time around.
My old NCOIC never even bothered
to ask for a volunteer.
The conversation starts out
with something about great opportunities--
and how vunderba this will look
in your record, and advance you
along in your military career.

There's definitely a shit-ton
of worst ways to tour your way
through 365 days of fun
in the dunes and sun--
full-battle-rattle,
and an aid bag kicker.

Such as it beats the hell
out of the house-to-house
door-to-door runs,
knocking on doors
spinning the charm
of the hearts and minds tour
to folk that, for the most part
are just getting settled back in
from the last time when all
hell broke loose outside
their front door-- and you really
can't catch an Iraqi speed-bump
at 40,000 feet...

Yeah, I probably would
never get the nod
to make that kind
of pitch anyways.
It's not really about
how I feel as I have a
fair idea of just how
they might feel about it.
Some just smile
and nod near enough
to the right places
to keep you moving,
while some others provide
a little more
convincing incentive
to stay and play
another fast-paced action
round of find some cover.

Looking down from on high
upon a river whose only
real significance has changed
somewhat from the last
time you had read about it
in the Bible; which leads
a strip of green
into a wide swath of nowhere--
and you may even convince
yourself that there
is no real significance
in what has changed in you
since the last time you read
the Bible.

It isn't really about
something to believe in
as that something else
that got left behind
in the way back whens.
You still kind of like
that kid, whose primary
struggles in life
were trying to learn
how to be a good person.

Even the ass-whuppings
don't seem near so bad in retrospect.

You may even wonder
who and what you
might have been
had you been born here.
It only takes a walk
through any village
or city to recognize
that the daily struggles
list tend to be much
longer, and more intense
even than your Daddy's belt--
no matter how pissed
he was at you...

As a child, I had
had a dream
of foreign armies
moving down my street.
I never really knew
who they were,
or why they were there.
For bad or good,
I could never really
even catch a glimpse
of the latter,
beyond the idea
that they were there
to change me, and my
world-- forever.

Helpless, like fear
and hate, isn't really
the sort of place
that a mind settles
in peace.

I begin to like my job
a little more.
I don't have to figure
out how to sell
the peace, about how
there's an opportunity
to decide some of
what and how your world
should be like,
and the politiks
of an open ended narrative...

as the UH-60 touches down,
I move out.
There's really no more
opportunity to wonder
what you might
live and die for;
and the daily struggles
of figuring who and what
is a good person is
in a situation like this.

It's all just muscle-memory
from here on out.

Uley  

Warhorse

Sharp orange glint stings old, weary eyes, so many long and distant campaigns recalled in the gloaming.
Atop a grassy ridge stands a solitary stallion, harness and saddle polished, awaiting the bugle's final sounding.

Fluttering, the Colors flow and snap in autumn's late breeze, a proud reminder of both cost and purpose.
Below them both rides out a cavalry of shiny young colts, galloping away smartly all dress right dress.

Briefly, a yearning to join their charge, till sadly it's remembered ... the summer of sweet glory has passed forever.
Then at long last, Taps, the bugler sounds his solemn yet soothing call, haunting the groomed, empty parade field.

Thoughts return to honor and duty, salutes and sacrifice, fallen comrades and those who simply faded away.
Finally the last note echoes poignant, a teary pause before he crests the hill in search of soft fields of clover.

Rags in the River

Raw across the fields, we ran      
from gunfire to birdsong      
the still of the orchard  
greening moss      
timing nature's slower breath  
to the steady march of afternoon      
     
The bloodiest stains  
may never come clean      
memories that wont be washed      
'till death permits us to forget      
a bitter mourning wasting lives      
however just times seemed      
     
Kids with orders  
hugging guns  
though when the smoke cleared      
none of us seemed men      
and whether ours or theirs      
no-one deemed to care      

For weren't we all one army      
our sole intent    
dragging bodies breathless  
past so much fallen fruit    
from a world struck dumb      
for a prayer

Military Girls

Almost four am in cold and drafty quiet;
a fold of eight in separate comfy bunks
arrayed in peaceful silence. Gentle nests
in twin dorm rooms at rest on either side
of a bathroom, a single solitary throne,
in comfortless utility, the shower space
maybe four by four and not much more,
in the ladies Navy barracks on the base.

They all at once communally succumb
beyond their slumbers deep and numb
to bleeps and squeaks and ringing bells;
undeniable sounds of noise envelopes,
raucous bellowed voices rise to waken
sleeping babes, as music fills the place
with hip-hop, classical and rock ‘n roll
in syncopated rhythm section cadence.

Do rise and shine my precious darlings,
for it’s just another cheerful Navy day
in service to your country on this base.
So they must take their stumbling stroll
amid the maze of sleepy, sluggish girls
all sharing paradise. Who must perform
a tricky dance of waltz and twinkle toes
to shower on display; toothpaste march
in bras with skimpy drawers and thongs,
in their customary close quarters crush.

Mirrors weep and vanish in a hazy mist
rising off the shower; as florid fragrance
fills the air eight hair dryers roar to power.
Drifting hair spray reeks and floats about
and to every weeping eye is then applied
mascara, for fashion’s feminine disguise.
Then dressed in dungarees of dingy blue
and those polished shoes of boy’s repute
while shiny girly tresses are tucked into
undistinguished nests of uniform unrest.

Grunts or groans and high pitched verbs
while powdered velvet shoulders merge
with flailing arms; elbows brush a cheek
in congenial unarmed combat to compete
to exchange this carnival of camaraderie  
for inhumanity in the galley.  Breakfast,
and the coffee; stand in line to get it first.
Six am comes faster than a sailor’s curse.

Miller Draft

Tan wrinkled cheeks and a jutting jaw,
Abe rests his chin by the rifle stock.
He checks his scope and draws a bead
on an empty Miller Draft bottle.
He breathes in slowly and holds it,
patiently aiming his sight back and forth
across six shiny labels of gold and black.
Flies and bees surround him in the grass,
his steady gaze never wavers.

His mind drifts off from fallow fields
to humid jungles, about forty years.
Sights he sees, hears and smell change.
Rustles in the grass have meaning,
cocks crowing in the yard raise hackles.
Arms aching, Abe slowly relaxes his grip
on the rifle. Still his gaze is fixed, staring
while his half-dozen Miller Draft bottles
melt into slivers of broken glass.

Abe shudders. Red hot flaming shards
blow past his face; gas fumes rise
over frantic screams on down the road.
He knows he’s just gotten lucky
fifty yards behind bringing up the rear.
Smoke obscures most of what happened;
another trap set; one more vicious attack.
He shakes it off, erasing burning infantry  
like dislodging a stinging insect.

He struggles to free himself from smoke
and debris, aware of movement.
Birds dart this way and that, no one near.
It’s past time to get on with it;
spoken out loud this time, more urgent
than the usual static scratching in his head.
Rosalee has visitors, grandkids in the yard;
she isn’t alone, ladies from church drop in
to chat with her in the afternoon.

Abe examines the rifle, rubbing his thumb
on its smooth walnut stock. Dad’s gun,
a gift given to him when he turned thirteen
a sacred family rite of passage.
For his Dad, gift giving involved lessons.
All those years ago, his stern admonishment
still reverberates. Never point a gun at a man
unless you’re willing to pull the trigger, son.
He takes aim at the enemy again.