Before I get on with poetry, allow me to remind you that the deadline to the current #farmpunk fiction writing contest is tomorrow--Monday, October 15, 2018, midnight EST. I've already received a few entries, but there can never be too many. If you're working on a story, it's time to think about wrapping it up and putting it in the submission box.
Poetry is Hell
Today's poem is another post-Iraq War verse. It's free verse with a very dark theme, but, like almost all of my poems, it contains a message worth thinking about.
You'll find very little evidence within the poem for the event that sparked it. While I was deployed, one of the soldiers in my unit--one of the best pistol shooters in the entire state of Texas, in fact--accidentally shot himself. He subsequently died.
I'll spare the gory details, but it all boils down to a single act of stupidity. In an attempt to prove to another soldier the weapon wasn't loaded, he confidently pointed it at himself and pulled the trigger violating every gun safety rule Americans are taught as soon as we know what guns are. An honored and decorated soldier should have known better. War's hell extends well beyond the obvious perils.
Our unit grieved collectively over this soldier's mishap. Individually, I grieved in my own way. "Carcass" was my stream of tears. It still is.
Carcass
He lies lifeless,
worthless as a goldfinch.
The blood map of his young life
trickles down his face.
You see the sharp exit wound of happiness
in his crown, a testament
to the stupidness of war.
The bird in her cage sings
the afterlife and you wonder if,
when you enter heaven,
she will have confessed your sins
for you before you get there.
Sometimes the enemy taunts you
through your own fears, your failures,
your desires, and comes back
through the mirror of the other man.
The void of his countenance
yells at you through the eyelids
of the future, becomes the visage
of your own losses, your gullible
hopes, and the sacred part
you would play in their demise.
Then you hear through sobbing
gasps for breath the words
that will ring in your heart
forever, lingering like a sad rain:
“It’s time to call for backup, sir.
The camp is not secure.”
If you want to read more poems of this kind, check out "Rumsfeld's Sandbox," by Allen Taylor.
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While you're here, check out more of my poems:
- Schadenfreude
- On The Road Home
- I Like War & Piano
- Battlefield Confession & Life
- Love and War
- We All Sing America Now
- Music
- Nocturne: Battlefield Sonnet
- Old Goth
The backside 5:
- Why Cryptocurrency is Important to Me
- Hire a Blogger for Your Crypto/Blockchain Blog
- Steemit Incubator Ideas Contest
- Let's Have a Minnow Celebration Party
- Farmpunk Fiction Writing Tip, Deadline Approaching
@blockurator,
The sheer stupidity of stupidity. The stupidity of youth. The stupidity of guys. The stupidity of guys showing off for other guys. I'm not sure you can blame this on war, though. Those who tempt fate, find it.
When I was in Africa, we had to explain: "When you shoot bullets straight up into the air in celebration, the bullets eventually stop going up, and start coming back down. A bullet, accelerating at 9.8 m/s, every second, when it impacts your skull ... will rip it to pieces."
They never listened. It tended to be innocent bystanders, though, who got hurt as the bullets started raining back down to Earth.
Powerful imagery.
Strong close. The "Theater of the Absurd."
Quill
Thanks, Quill. A million bones of gold coming from you.
Yeah, the stupidness of stupidity. There's no other way to describe it. It's sad, for his family.
@blockurator,
You know, "other ranks" rarely think about some of the shitty things that officers must have to do. After reading this poem, I got to thinking: Imagine having to be the Company Commander who has to write a letter to this kid's family. How could such a letter be anything other than wholly moronic? "Your son survived snipers and IED's ... but shot himself in the head while fooling around in the barracks." Christ ...
If it was you who had to write that letter, you have my sympathies.
Quill
I did not. Fortunately. But, yes, writing such a letter, even with a combat casualty, would not be easy. For a stupid accident, well, it doesn't take much imagination ....
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It must've been hard! Maybe deadlier than the enemy himself.
Yes indeed. It's no cake walk.
I hope poetry helps tame those memories... a little
It does.
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Another great post
Thank you.
Good intro and good poem sorry I just didn't find the time to write that story but I will try to do the next one.
No problem. You've still got till midnight tonight.
Creative as usual
Thank you.
Sorry to hear this.
A great poem :)
Thanks! Love the handle. We can get quirky together. In a strictly plutonic sense, of course.
Thanks! Haha! Yes most definitely :)
from 13 poems by a panel of 3