After the war
they came home bleeding
holes punched into the soul,
mysterious illnesses, government silence
they left home whole
went to distant shores
mosquito jungles, dust devil deserts
were told to hunker down in rat holes
opiates passed the time between card games
and cigarettes and letters from mom,
and the fifteen year old girl picked up from Ho Chi Minh
between carting off bodies, maimed, dead, on stretchers
darting enemy fire
poisoned by our own Orange Agent
radiated by slugs made from plutonium shells
not recognizing the home they returned to
transformed, not knowing
the ghosts they’d brought back
the hungry ghosts of distant lands
clinging to vacant eyes
tormented by visions of choppers in the sky
some took to Wild Irish Rose
while others kept pace with the needle
marking tracks of who they would have been
soul now stuck in some astral swamp
camping out on the margins,
over the guard rail on the highway behind the bushes
beneath the overpass
haunted by voices
and nightmare schisms
no recourse to the plastic virtues of suburbia
without aim, drifting from vacant motel
to vagrant parking lots
telling their stories to the few who will listen
shouting on the corners, gesticulating
trying to shake off the hungry ghost
flying a sign
nearly invisible off the turnpike
becoming ever more ghost like
dying without a name
until someone checks the dog tags
buried but not gone
these rusty shells, these earth bound spectres
burning with a prayer for dawn
waiting for the inmost light
hoping for a harp to sing them sweet home
watching for a guide
a gentle hand to lead them out of night
Justin,
I am an anti-war monger…I hate all war…I’m against the next war ….
there is no such thing as the “good war” millions of people die.
WE got our asses kicked in Korea and Vietnam and in Iraq and in Afghanistan….
your poem is an ugly reminder of war and it was well said!