LETTER FROM HUE, 1968
Once I absorbed John Wayne movies with pride.
My toy rifle held high; always winning
The Right Fantasy War For The Right Reason
Days were spent
Humming the right songs,
Saying the right words,
Thinking the right things
and
Faking forced school prayer.
At fourteen, I wondered if the Yankees would repeat.
And asked "Sir, what is Vietnam?"
The Sands of Iwo Jima convinced me
To Believe
To Believe
To Believe
At sixteen, sports, girls, and study were my life.
Military recruiters visted and I asked of Vietnam.
They said: "It will be over soon,
Trust Me,"
And "Trust Me,"
And " Trust Me."
At nineteen, I was drafted out of college;
Taught to hate in eight weeks;
and Kill
The rifles real
We were sharp
And so eager to give up our lives.
Generals demanded we
KILL THE GOOKS!
KILL THE GOOKS!
KILL THE GOOKS!
My twentieth birthday was spent in Hue, Vietnam.
The day's gore of the Tet Offensive gave way
To deadly black shadows.
We dug in deep-shot on sight.
Night was so dark-instinct my only mirror.
With only each other to hold onto.
Streets are barren now.
Early morning rain
Has washed away
Traces of those who once were.
Silence encases me...until a
Cutting winds whips viciously by
Breaking the monotonous speel;
Shattering the hiatus.
Even dead friends shudder
in their new plastic wombs;
Numbered tags flap
Noisily in the numbing breeze.
A mournful howl celebrates daybreak with us.
The sun rises
Once again.
I slowly climb out of my earthen coffin.
And glide over the rubble
That was once a church
in Hue yesterday.
Childhood fantasies are spread over
each foot of blood stained earth.
Glassy eyes look up beckoning me to join their journey
My private world
Of unspecified dimension bonded with fear;
I view other separate fractured worlds dying.
I almost feel.
I've forgotten
How To Hum
How To Speak
How To Smile
How To Trust
How To Believe
I look at dead friends with no tears
And whisper, "maybe, next time."
Sounds of their laughter are lost.
I live with that.
The rain starts again.
My earthen coffin calls out for me.
Dedicated to Renee Downing for caring
copyright C.R. Hovey, all rights reserved, 2005
Once I absorbed John Wayne movies with pride.
My toy rifle held high; always winning
The Right Fantasy War For The Right Reason
Days were spent
Humming the right songs,
Saying the right words,
Thinking the right things
and
Faking forced school prayer.
At fourteen, I wondered if the Yankees would repeat.
And asked "Sir, what is Vietnam?"
The Sands of Iwo Jima convinced me
To Believe
To Believe
To Believe
At sixteen, sports, girls, and study were my life.
Military recruiters visted and I asked of Vietnam.
They said: "It will be over soon,
Trust Me,"
And "Trust Me,"
And " Trust Me."
At nineteen, I was drafted out of college;
Taught to hate in eight weeks;
and Kill
The rifles real
We were sharp
And so eager to give up our lives.
Generals demanded we
KILL THE GOOKS!
KILL THE GOOKS!
KILL THE GOOKS!
My twentieth birthday was spent in Hue, Vietnam.
The day's gore of the Tet Offensive gave way
To deadly black shadows.
We dug in deep-shot on sight.
Night was so dark-instinct my only mirror.
With only each other to hold onto.
Streets are barren now.
Early morning rain
Has washed away
Traces of those who once were.
Silence encases me...until a
Cutting winds whips viciously by
Breaking the monotonous speel;
Shattering the hiatus.
Even dead friends shudder
in their new plastic wombs;
Numbered tags flap
Noisily in the numbing breeze.
A mournful howl celebrates daybreak with us.
The sun rises
Once again.
I slowly climb out of my earthen coffin.
And glide over the rubble
That was once a church
in Hue yesterday.
Childhood fantasies are spread over
each foot of blood stained earth.
Glassy eyes look up beckoning me to join their journey
My private world
Of unspecified dimension bonded with fear;
I view other separate fractured worlds dying.
I almost feel.
I've forgotten
How To Hum
How To Speak
How To Smile
How To Trust
How To Believe
I look at dead friends with no tears
And whisper, "maybe, next time."
Sounds of their laughter are lost.
I live with that.
The rain starts again.
My earthen coffin calls out for me.
Dedicated to Renee Downing for caring
copyright C.R. Hovey, all rights reserved, 2005
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