Poems from combat veterans are the Proverbs of war, they contain the wisdom of the many and the soul of one.

“Poetry is the fine art of substantiating shadows, and of lending existence to nothing.” Burke

Much can be said about the shadows of war. Little can be said in polite company. Less can be said that captures the dark night of the soul.  Thinking accurately is not the end game, but feeling honestly is the only path to healing and grasping the aftermath that lingers.

“War, that mad game , the world so loves to play.” Swift

I will be posting poetry from a select group of combat veterans I have come to know over the past ten years.  They have given permission to publish these for the readers of the TucsonCitizen.com.  They have not given permission for any other publication.

The first poem by Bill Black,  a former Army officer and Vietnam Veteran, is from the title of one of his collections by the same name, “Old Eyes, Grey Souls.”  The title in itself captures a reminiscent feeling for me. I recall my first teacher on the U of A  campus, Father Robert Burns OP, head of the Religious Studies program, who once told me that my eyes looked so much older than my 23 years of age. I had been home from the war for nine months.

Black holds deep convictions about the effects of war on our societal structures.  “While war makes history and shapes destinies of nations, the individual effects on the  people involved need further discussion,” Black states.

The second writer/poet I have selected, is Pete Bourret. Pete is also a Vietnam Veteran, and served with the 7th Marines as a combat mortarman.  Pete is currently working on his first novel, and has produced a documentary about his return trip to Vietnam; ” Strands of Wire Around My Heart.”

Old Eyes, Grey Souls

The old man was sad as he walked away.

He should not have seen what he saw today.

He hoped this group would escape it some way.

He knew it well from days gone by.

He knew the anguish would not die.

The young guys were still sitting there,

Not talking, just drinking.  He could swear

They each remembered some personal “there.”

They were easy to tell from the other guys,

They were the young guys with the old eyes.

His own “there” had been along a riverside

In an area so low that it had a high tide

That had colored rust brown from the blood

From the bodies from friends that had stood

As part of a team, his buddies on each side.

Their lives and times were shaped in a way

That if they mentioned the place, few could say

That they had heard or knew of the place

Or what the guys went through.  A look, a word, a face,

Or a scene was all it took for the memory to race.

So they sat with a stare so far away while memories replay

Places and days they wish would go away.

The eyes mirror a soul locked on a scene from that day.

Tears that they could not cry were frozen behind old eyes

Chilled from the depths of souls already grey.

The old man sighed as he remembered other guys

Who looked this way as their nightmares flowed into the day.

Long lost, dead, but never escaping the way

The eyes showed their souls,

So young in years, but already grey.

Bill Black/ Army Officer

THE SECRET LAW OF PHYSICS

Mortar round exploding

Shrapnel

racing

timelessly

aimlessly

endlessly

through dozens of Decembers            until

the grunts child feels the burning metal shards of yesterday’s war

made unfairly present           by daddy’s sentence in his prison of pain.

Shrapnel has no ears                 to hear a child’s whimpering under the covers

Shrapnel has no eyes                to see the vacant stare of a childhood stolen

Shrapnel has no lips                  to count the thousand smiles that never were.

Shrapnel only has perpetual velocity

And

too much time on its hands.                            Pete M. Bourret

Spending Grace

The priest said it was the gift of a loving God/  A loving grace for everyone/ It seemed a part of the Church facade/ To us this Church would shun.

For us grace is a fragment/ Or pennies found or lost/ Or spent to buy moments/ For someone else’s cost.

We go on day by day/ As in little moments/ We spend grace away/ In meaningless events.

Yes it was the Priests promise to the poor/ A selling point in his salvation refrain/ But the only gifts in streets and wars/ Are numbing hunger and lasting pain.

Bill Black

Untitled

Stars everywhere/   Cricket chatter/  Cold beads of sweat– meet my hand—as it roams the geography of my face.

The thought is back

Someone in the darkness

wants to kill me.

Pete Bourret

“Veterans are the light at the tip of the candle, illuminating the way for the whole nation. If veterans can achieve awareness, transformation, understanding, and peace, they can share with the rest of society the realities of war. And they can teach us how to make peace with ourselves and each other, so we never have to use violence to solve conflicts again.”  Thich Nhat Hanh

Some will snicker at the mushy nature of poetry.  Yet, in a time like the present when language is used and abused to the sole end of dividing, I see it differently. It is the poet who does not permit us to be distracted by the base and carnival world of politics.

Both of these gentleman are award winning poets. I will share more from their collections in future postings.