CRYSTAL BALL

by Laura Rodley

In the knuckle of the nightmare what does he see?

He swivels the joint around, sees faces

of children, no longer innocent, their faces blank,

then blown up. It is not that he had to bury any;

that was not his job. Instead, he was flown

above the rice paddies where the women worked,

their wide hats resembling shiitake mushrooms

when seen from the sky, their tiny hoes

hoeing the fields, gathering the grain,

letting the water out, sprayed with napalm

and agent orange; they all ate it, its perfume

a pollen of poison. He was up in a helicopter,

delivering paychecks, manna from

the government. What is easy to ignore

when survival demands it comes back to stare

you in the face. The children’s faces below,

his fellow soldiers, a flip of propeller blade

and they are gone, but not now, not fifty-five

years later, a whole other lifetime. He still carries

butterscotch lifesavers in his pockets

that he handed out to the children that came begging;

they saw him as Santa Claus, one of his many

camouflaged elves. He can’t turn time back

but his nightmares do it for him, every night

he reenters the war zone he left behind,

taught as a man from birth not to have feelings,

then returning from duty, not to have feelings,

with no one buying him a drink at the bar

or asking him to speak at the high school,

as the World War II vets were so honored. It’s a long

way back, to the fields of yellow pollen that was not

the dust of Ailanthus trees, a long way back to the drugs

that were offered to make you forget, to the beers, to women offered,

to the honor you held tight to your chest.

He knew all the lyrics to The Doors, the Beatles,

Dion and the Belmonts; where does that

get him now? He’s held tight in the fist

of his commanding officer suck it up, be a man.

He’s held tight in the fist of his own heart, squeezing the life out

of him and into him, regulating his every action,

his every breath. But the rhythm of the heart

is not the territory of nightmares, the nightmares

leave notches, catch his breath; he wanted a gentle life,

honor held tight in the fist that is his heart,

caught off balance, flailing, ceaselessly trying

to get into the groove, pay attention.

His life depends on it.

Laura Rodley, Pushcart Prize winner, is a quintuple Pushcart Prize nominee and quintuple Best of Net nominee. Latest books: Turn Left at Normal by Big Table Publishing, Counter Point by Prolific Press, and As You Write It Lucky Lucky 7, a collection of 11 writers' work.

TO THE FAMILY OF A VIETNAMESE MAN KILLED IN HIS BOATON THE MEKONG DELTA, 1968

by Peg Quinn

On January 1968, sighting the enemy, the door gunner aboard a Huey helicopter opens fire on a target below in the Mekong Delta. Image source: The History Channel

Dear grieving family,
your father, son, brother, uncle
still screams in the heart of his killer

Was he fishing that day
or wiring mortars?
Doesn’t matter

our young, dumb helicopter pilot
was obeying orders when his
rat-a-tat-tat shattered his target

gripping his soul with a grief
that won’t untangle

fifty years later,
he trembles when telling the story
and your father, son, brother, uncle
lives again,
his dreams floating
in bloody water and we
want to go back
rewrite the day,
let him arrive home, happy
with fish for dinner
because our young dumb soldier
was looking over his other shoulder

and will get to grow old with simple,
ordinary, explainable
regrets.


Peg Quinn is a two-time Pushcart Prize nominee, mural and theatrical set painter, award winning quilter and art specialists at a private school in Santa Barbara, California.

ON NOVEMBER 11

by Gil Hoy

"Custer's Last Stand" by Harold von Schmidt. Image source: Smithsonian.

Veterans Day Weekend 2014

On November 11, honor the brave dead

from Afghanistan and Iraq, heroes against
German and Japanese imperialism

and the sacrificed souls in “the war to end
all wars.”

But also thank Custer’s soldiers
for not completing the genocide.

I went to bed and dreamt that Sitting Bull
saw Hiroshima and Nagasaki
in a vision quest

and then dropped an A-Bomb on Washington, D.C.

to stop invading Custer
from killing his women and children
like so many insects.

Upon awakening, I discovered that America
attacked Iraq for weapons of mass destruction

after murderous
pecuniary munitions manufacturers
crumbled twin towers
with their boomerang missiles

because recipients of evil often do evil in return.

Russian troops rhythmically
marched in the Ukraine,
a cruel video
beheaded a journalist,

ruinous bombs reined down
on rubbled villages of the weak,
and a bullet to a private’s leg became gangrene
as sepsis spread to amputation and death.

An obscure philosophy book said
that Custer should have refused
to attack renegades

because the Black Hills were the Lakota’s by treaty

and that God had ordered Custer’s men to lay down
their weapons or be shot for insubordination.

By river rapids, a sweating grimacing squaw
watched the blue cavalry approach as
she gave birth to a red son,

who drew his first breath,
wailed loudly and coveted white milk.


Gil Hoy received a B.A in Philosophy from Boston University, an M.A. in Government from Georgetown University, and a law degree from the University of Virginia. Gil also is an elected member of the Brookline, MA Democratic Town Committee, and served as a Brookline Selectman for 12 years. Gil studied poetry at Boston University, and started writing his own poetry in February of this year. Since then, Gil’s poems have been published in Soul Fountain, The New Verse News, The Story Teller Magazine, the Clark Street Review, Eye On Life Magazine, and Stepping Stones Magazine.

'NAM POSTSCRIPT

by Richard O'Connell

Veterans Day Weekend 2014

Now the tunnel at the end of the light
Perceived: no one won, no one was right;
No one lost, but the dead and maimed
Suffered all for the armistice gained.


Richard O'Connell lives in Deerfield Beach, Florida. Collections of his poetry include RetroWorlds, Simulations, Voyages, and The Bright Tower, all published by the University of Salzburg Press (now Poetry Salzburg). His poems have appeared in The New Yorker, The Atlantic Monthly, National Review, The Paris Review, Measure, Acumen. 

HERO

by Peg Quinn

Image source: 1stdibs

 

Veterans Day Weekend 2014

easing back
as morphine
soothes his system
he remembers
the Great Depression

walking to school
through snow
without a coat
in shoes
that didn’t match
he drifts

to Guadalcanal
his tank under fire
the slow motion of
body parts in the water
the gunner’s beheading
crimes never mentioned
until his wife’s death
sixty years later

somewhere
his box of medals

now his mind turns bedside
his infant son
an iron lung
polio
the good man
he would become

wife’s smile
swirls the room

he smiles back
remembering
fields and farms from
their Piper Cub
tandem seating
their carnival of friends
ferris wheels
of laughter

his good fortune

the landscape of his
life a clean horizon

this night,
straining through pain
between tabs of morphine
he finds the faded
Navajo rug bought
from the back of a truck
their honeymoon stop
near Santa Fe
the light in the eyes
of his spunky bride
that night
under stars

he tosses the rug
to the garage floor

drops down hard

steadies the gun
metal to mouth

as he remembers

paying full price
without bargaining


Peg Quinn is a two-time Pushcart Prize nominee, mural and theatrical set painter, award winning quilter and art specialists at a private school in Santa Barbara, California.

THE WAR COMES HOME

by George Snedeker

Veterans Day Weekend 2014

Many came.
The preacher spoke.
Hearts were broken.
Mourners had nowhere to turn.

With money earned
and with bodies burned.
Someday they will learn
what there is to learn.

Families and friends came to the funeral.
The body was shipped home
with a flag draped over the box.

Tuition paid
for a college education.
He hoped to find a job.
That was his hope,
so many hopes,
all gone now.

Fallen on the battle field:
a post office was named for him,
as if that meant anything.


George Snedeker has published scholarly articles in the areas of social theory and Literary Criticism as well as short stories and poems. His poems have appeared in both literary magazines and sociology journals. His book The Politics of Critical Theory, published in 2004, received several positive reviews in scholarly journals. His satirical novel about college life The Cutting Edge was published under the pen name of David Lansky in 2013. He is the book review editor of the journal Socialism and Democracy and  has served on its editorial board since 1985.