Leona Lewis – Footprints in The Sand

This is a wonderful video about cherished friendship that Rend, my special talented poet friend recommended.

Nevertheless

 

 

I AM

 

the

sum

parts

of my present and future life ~

therefore,

I accept responsibility for my decisions.

 

never

the less,

this is my previous life.

Authors Notes: Responsibility for our choices and subsequent paths are more complex that one might think.

‘South of Somewhere’

South of somewhere
Searching for someplace
Drawing me closer somehow
I found the elixir of something

 

Author’s Notes: A poem of the essence of process.

‘Fallen Petals’

Wet and broken twig
What use now?
To fallen petals

Author’s Note: I wrote this poem after recalling one of my most meaningful experiences in Vietnam. I volunteered to go on a special mission as a medic. We ended up in the ‘middle of nowhere’ treating very small-orphaned children cared for by Monks. The children never laughed, cried or said a word even though their wounds were horrific. One very small girl, shaved head like the others, starred vacantly as I did what I could to offer medical care for her severe injuries. Then, suddenly, just as they appeared out of the jungle — the Monks led the children away just before an advancing North Vietnamese patrol. We also evacuated quickly. The wet and broken twig is the injured foot (barely held on by a tendon) of the young girl I was treating. The fallen petals are all of the children. I wrote this poem on April 7th, 1991.

‘Vietnam Vet’

Look.
A falling
leaf
Another,
then
Another

Sacrifice the hero

Author’s Notes: I wrote this on the plane home from my first visit to the Vietnam Memorial Wall on Veteran’s Day ‘89. It sums up some of my emotions aroused from that intense experience at the Wall.

‘Dew Mingling’

Dew Mingling
On a spider’s web
Clutching
Winter’s fatal wind

Author’s Notes: As a photographer I have observed this in the Winter. I recall how much strength the web demonstrated while embracing the weight of the dew and the force of the wind. I wrote this Haiku in honor of this experience. I wrote this poem on April 15th, 2003.

‘Welcome Home’

Jo and me photographed by her friend – Washington, D.C.

 Bewilderment detachment; solemnly praying,
Ceremonial Presidential Wreath’s laying.
Arlington National Cemetery, Tomb of the Unknowns,
Honoring the loss of Americans we bemoan.

Taps painfully played; a solitary bugle,
Accompanying the rat ta tat tat; the drum so regal.
Cascading tears bathing my flushed cheeks,
The longer I stand, the more I grow weak.

Jo, a Vietnam Memorial Wall volunteer,
Recognizing the familiar gleam of fear,
Offering help up that emotional climb,
“Some vets don’t make it their first time.”

Pausing beside a letter, set against cool black marble,
Words piercing my heart like pieces of shrapnel.
A dispatch from Jo, to her husband Bill,
The message passionate: my body expels a chill.

Reflections casting shadows over Bill’s name,
On the polished granite self proclaimed.
We are weighing the wounds of war,
Comforting each other, and too many before.

Jo, Whispering, “Welcome home,” without pretense.
Feelings welling inside me with vengeance.
Moving, moving without belonging: needing to roam,
Two decades passing; maybe now coming home.

Fourteen months of duty, then 20 years shutdown,
Jo hugging tightly: our tears kissing the ground.
Tracing significant names for many a veteran friend,
Too few years left; too much to mend.

A silver POW/MIA bracelet placed on my wrist,
“I’ve never taken this off,” exclaims Jo in earnest.
Col. Robert L. Standerwick Sr., the bracelet proclaims,
On the Wall a diamond, the uncertainty of his remains.

Pacing a moonlit path, painfully alone,
Endless names bathed in light: etched forever in stone.
Haunting Vietnam memories revived,
Endless names survive.

Emerging from a deathlike dream,
Eerie consciousness in an audible stream.
An unforgettable song latched in time and space,
“We Gotta Get Out Of This Place.”

Feeling drawn to a crying woman looking askew,
Tearing a piece of my last dry tissue.
Sharing a tender offering,
Each new song reviving memories of warring.

This woman expressing calm enlightenment,
Hugging me with abandonment.
Tears mingling in loving suction,
A reprieve of war’s self destruction.

A hand from behind grabs my shoulder,
I know the reach; it’s from a former soldier.
Reminding me when life was bloody.
He calls out, “Welcome home buddy.”

An unplanned march to the Laotian Embassy,
Protesting the POW/MIA conspiracy.
Needing to go: not certain how or why,
Must go for those names that will not die.

Faces painted symbolically white,
Carrying burning candles of spiritual light.
Singing fervent songs and chanting,
Embassy personnel: concealed–not recanting.

Waiting to hear from Lynn, a hush in the air,
Protesters listening with rapt attention.
Sharing of her father’s loss in Laos while flying,
Shear strength keeps her from crying.

Speech over, Lynn now sitting silently,
Near the steps of the Laotian Embassy.
Pushing past the Washington police,
I’m sitting beside her now, near release.

Illuminating the bracelet drawn by dim light of her candle,
Staring into each others eyes, more than either can handle.
Name on the Bracelet…that of her father,
An hour and then–embracing each other.

Back at the Wall of war; seeking a touch of peace.
Nearly one a.m.; will this dream ever cease?
Time that unforgiving nemesis,
Oh God! Release the genesis.

Three A.M. and God forsaken,
Writing a grieving letter–twenty years and still so shaken.
Pinning it on the Wall with a twig, wet and broken,
The message is deep, the gesture….a token.

Author’s Notes: After my first trip to the Vietnam Memorial Wall ‘89, I wrote this poem on the plane heading back home. The original poem was actually much longer as the story included much more. I completed this poem as the plane taxied on the tarmac in Phoenix, Arizona from Washington, D.C. I served 14 months in the U.S. Army in the Vietnam War. The image is one that a veteran friend of Jo took of she and I at the Wall just prior to her giving me the POW/MIA bracelet. This is a true story!

‘Daddy, Why Are The People Crying?’

 

 Daddy, why are there names on the wall?
They are Americans killed during the Vietnam War.
Daddy, why do the people touch the wall?
To touch the wall is to touch the dead.
Daddy, why are the people crying?
The dead are touching them back.

 Author’s Note: I wrote this poem at the Vietnam Memorial Wall in Washington, D.C., on Veteran’s Day ‘89 during my first and most significant visit. I watched many people at the Wall tracing names, touching names, and staring off in reflection. After experiencing the same for myself, I wrote this poem at 3 AM. I pictured my daughter, Kelly, as the child asking the questions.