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I have written poetry since I was 10 or so 5 decades ago. More of it is now lost and turned to dust than exists. What remains I've never shared with a large group before but feel finally ready. I trust you will critique, no matter what you say good or bad, all will be considered constructive, but above all, I hope some may apprciate and connect with some of these.


Written 30 years ago.....


Love's Legacy

Gardenia,
Is His conscience whiter
Than thy precious, pearly petals,
Knowing that inevitably I
(With heart and soul shot through as clearest diamond
Refracting rainbow hues myriad)
When first enhaling in love
Thy exotic fragrance fulfilling
Will cause thee to wilt
And yellow?



My mother was dieing....

My Mother Will Go

The sun is setting quickly,
(My mother cannot tell)
The storm clouds march across the sky
In waves of black and gray,
(My mother cannot say)
The red and orange are glaring
And a silver lining billows,
(My mother surely knows)
The clouds are moving swiftly
Thunderheads grow and grow
(My mother faint breaths blows)
Heads now lifted fully high
And soon the rains will flow.



Rewritten in 1970s, 80s, 90s maybe again LOL......
Dedicated to my friend who died of agent orange induced cancer
He had won a silver star with V (for conspicous valor) device in Nam and this was his motto:
"A true hero seeks no glory." Joseph J. Comazzi 1947-1990

The Glory of War

Warriors garbed in the filthy raiments of battle
Eyes beseiged by tears for friends, allies, enemies fallen,
Ears no longer scient of soft supplications,
Hearts like icebergs adrift far from the common flow,
Know, the glories of war
Are maniacal illusions.

Nightstalker,

Thanks for posting these poems. The first two are delicate and
affecting. The juxtaposition of them to the third poem (with that
poem's battle coarsened content) is itself poetic.

Not to quibble and accepting the truth of the last poem for most
soldiers that face battle, there are those for whom glory in battle
are "not maniacal illusions." Some people enjoy battle. -- But, even
for those people, whatever they gain in this pursuit comes at the expense
of being able to connect to a more expansive human experience, via
a disconnect to what their "eyes," "ears" and "hearts" otherwise
could see, hear, and feel. (Degrees of psychic scarring vary,
as does the experience of healing and recovery.)

Dear Nightstalker ~

I was touched by your first poem giving concern to the beautiful gardenia. That is the one flower [I have a couple bushes in my yard, but one next to my gazebo] and every time, without fail, that I lean down to smell a flower still on the bush, the identical thought crosses my mind, "I'm so glad to be alive!" There's something in the headiness of that scent that feels life-giving. I've shared your feelings of 'guilt' in removing its life when I've picked them to keep it closer for a briefer time. I've sadly watched the blossom yellow ~ off the vine, yet on the vine, as well. Your depiction of conscience as being white is lovely, and questioning this whole process from a shared point of view, yous with the flower's, appeals to me. Or does "His" refer to G~d who created the flower for these many uses that man makes of it? I like the centuries-olde approach in your use of language. The Gardenia deserves that . You are so romantic, aren't you?

Your gentle likening of your mother's final times with the weather, and her lack of direct awareness, yet understanding of it, before her dying seems to have been an effective way for you to deal with your feelings. With your final line "And soon the rains will flow," you, at once, seem to say that you know it won't be long, and yet you know that dying is a natural process, as natural as the thunderheads releasing their rain. I get a sense of struggling to accept the inevitable in as poetic, and thereby comforting, a way as possible. I'm wondering whether your mother couldn't see the sun setting, or if she didn't know she was dying.

Your last poem strongly captures the alienation from home that soldiers are forced to deal with, and the steeling [and stealing] of themselves is necessary, just to try to survive; yet, how even killing the enemy can hurt. Of course, because this aligns with my own feelings about war, I'm very drawn to its sentiments. Your friend, Joseph, sounds like he gave the battle all he had and lost to its insidiousness in the end. I also had a wonderfully gentle friend who died about five years ago, due to Agent Orange-induced lymphoma. He would have shared your Joseph's motto. You've written an effective depiction of war, from the perspective of those who have fought and are against them, and those who haven't fought and are against them.

As Steven has noted, there are some who enjoy the battle, but I believe they're in the minority [for many, even if their pre-battle illusions were glorious, they find that the real thing isn't]... and, as he has noted, they suffer huge losses in the process. I wish psychic healing for those who survived. I, too, agree with the poetic juxtaposition of these poems. Loss of life for the flower, as it gives its life for you; loss of life for your mother, years after she gave life to you; and loss of life of your friend, after engaging in the institutionalized taking of lives; even for those who survive, loss of huge aspects of their lives at the time, and for some, even so, the ultimate loss of their life in the end.

I had to wait until I had a free morning [today off] to respond to these. I know how important it was for you to share them. Thanks for doing it.

Love,
Lizzy

TY, Steven, for the kind words.


Truths for My Friends

I would invite you into my heart
But it is far too dark
It sucks light from all the universe
And leaves only despair, perverse,
Unending.

I haven't the time or lovely words
You thought you heard
Flowing from a lucid mind
Laying fields of warm Gulf sands
Before your feet,

Seeming to bid you welcome and cheer
Only to disappoint,
Like a creature's snare
To steal the goodness from you,
While sharing the pain.

The Aegean Stables knew no such wail
No such putrid smell,
The Fields of Death
Of a million battles
Know less searing grief.

So, I show what may be born,
By those with diamonds
Within their core
And plead that you seek to know
No more.

Warning. Only heartache lurks below.


I am ever troubled by how much should I should say about my personal war exploits, wounds and personal consequences because I am one of those permanently and deeply scarred mentally that you mention. As a young man I would have never believed it either. The last poem in the first posting was much longer at one time. I wrestled with its content for the exact reason you mention for personal reasons. I had 'the joy of battle' syndrome off and on and off while engaged in warfare and recognise its lure. I revised the poem to its current length after long conversations in the 90s with another veteran who did the same things I did and who has the same problems I have. He is CSM Pat Tadina, although in Nam he was an angry Buck Sgt avenging the death of his brother who had been an early casualty of that war in 1963. Pat was and is a little man in stature, part Hawaiian, part Japanese, all American and 'bad' enough to kill you with his bare hands and then calmly finish breakfast. LOL Anyhow, I condensed the poem and universalized it because I think that at one time or another all warriors reach this point at least once, if they ever reflect on battles in which they engaged. Some are deprived of that privilege by being killed in the battles, some cannot deal with that look back and commit suicide and some simply become mental vegetables. I have seen all of the above, all the damages wrought, and I reflect upon all that I have done. The poem is intended to reflect the attitude of those warriors who have just finished a battle, who are still soiled by the last action. In my mind I see a line of tired, dirty men who depended on me dragging them back to 'safety' after spending several hours or days walking where death might pluck them away, always weary, always thirsty, always wondering, always worrying... I see a medic's eyes telling me, "He's gone, sir....." before he utters the words that I already know are coming about a young troop I respected whose throat was torn out by a sniper's bullet right in front of my eyes and yards from my own neck..... I see my remaining men looking for support after we medivaced 9 of our own and had 4 walking wounded when a large booby trap killed one and wounded 12 of the first 15-16 in the line of march including me (slightly, luckily).... I see seven other pairs of eyes, watching from our ambush position on the roof of the old French villa as the artillery barrage I called down on 300 people we found in the open killed and maimed those enemy under the parachute flares, glow with joy and sorrow, because we were almost out of ammo already and could not kill any more of the enemy with our own weapons..... I see the eyes of those in a helicopter that crashed in an LZ, we were attempting to secure for reinforcements, while attempting to land after I had warned the senior officer on board that it was too dangerous even though those eyes were too far away in distance and luck for me to actually see or help.... I see the eyes of those standing with me as close as we dared to the fire melting the damn duece and a half that the burning corpse (whom I didn't know from Adam) in it had attempted to rescue after the aviation gas tank was hit by a rocket -- maybe it was 'his' truck.... I see my own eyes staring at my filthy face and clothes after engaging in my first successful night ambush where 9 of us slaughtered 3 other human beings that never got a shot off but had the misfortune of being in a free fire zone and carrying a couple of weapons and a document bag.... These and many other eyes compel me to universalize the concept. Still there may be some who were different. Yes, there may be, but I do hope there are damn few of them.......

BTW, Pat is not one of those....

http://www.75thrangers.org/units/n_75/page8.html

3d picture down

https://www.benning.army.mil/rtb/Hall_o ... tadina.htm

inducted into the Ranger Hall of Fame 1995

Dear Nightstalker ~

The eyes, the proverbial ~ yet true ~ window to the soul, are haunting. You speak so well to their impact and the many messages they delivered, Nightstalker. It seems you could universalize all of those eyes in a poem, as well.

I deeply admire your speaking of your experiences in the war. So many refuse, for so many reasons that only they know. Meanwhile, even though some might say otherwise, those experiences continue to eat away at them from the outside. I really appreciate your trust, in bringing some of your own to us here.

This last, very intense poem of yours here speaks volumes. I'll never forget the impact on me when I saw The Deerhunter for the first time... the sad thing is that I've seen the repetition of that obtuse frivolity in similar situations since.

I'm against the war solutions, yet have never extended those feelings against the soldiers and veterans who were 'assigned' to fight them. That's a whole, other issue, which we've discussed a lot here. I won't get started on it, but I thank you again for your openness. It had to be even more difficult for you to share your third poem, beyond your concerns for your writing abilities.

Love,
Lizzy

Nightstalker,

You are an excellent communicator. I understand your "being
ever troubled" by how much you should say. I've a feeling,
though, at appropriate settings and with people worthy of
trust, your ability to communicate can, in ways fully acceptable
to you, lead to a softening of your belief (and lessening of the extent
you experience) that you are "permanently and deeply scarred."