John G Evans © 2019

Ah, poetry! Some do, some don’t. I do. You either like it, or? For me, a splintered soul wounded by the predatorial muse that searches me out in all my vulnerabilities entombs the vastness of these desert skies.

Freedom, a word untouched for none owe a guilty price. Or, we all do, and yet, the raven still flies and calls me by name as golden finches own the lands of metaphor and, I aspire to make my stand.

During the era for the war on Nam, where undo leashes from stony fractures and stares from the skulls of distant Marines, with stories of their own, impotent with the pen and pad, so I write for them all where pain lives sad.

Most I knew had a duty of honor. Others hoped me dead. And still, I survived. My pain was real and suffused, repressed, confused, by the taunting of arrogance and the humanity factor: thus ego.

A crystal remembrance of Carolina wood, or Beaufort’s swamps, and the ocean that would kill, in fact, did so in ’56. I was not there but read of the occurrence in a book entitled, “Marine!” No, my scheduled tour was overtaken by a vehement battering one darkened night in ’72. And, days later in the field covered in wire with shards of steel I felt its sting with blood and spine as the quake of ground exploded before me. “I’m hit, I’m hit,” but the words fell not from my shock-filled mouth full of gravel dust and a ton of grit.

Derelict voices commanded my moves. Blood snaked down my neck that would soon take flight beneath a bulldozer’s blade, as the proof must be substantiated with a confirmation from friendly fire. But, it did not. Death was prevalently imminent protrusive of the perpetrator’s eyes that burnt like fuel.

A medivac ne’er seen for the wounded Marine who lay in the dust bitten by the unseen projectile. Only a wipe of the blood from the enemy’s hand, crony or fiend of who I have no name. No! It all happened too fast. Shit!

Time will tell, for in the end the wary shall fall with a guilt not small to overtake one’s life, especially as one trains as a combat Marine (honorably), to serve his purpose for the accompaniments for all who serve. A body meant not to stop the projectiles of war, but to serve each other in an honorable roll.

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