memorial day

"I think we agree, the past is over."
George W. Bush

A list of coalition soldiers killed in action in Iraq

"It's not dark yet, but it's gettin' there."
Bob Dylan

Bill [Jones] used to mention
Vietnam sometimes --
Snippets of story
I heard but never
felt.
He might have been describing
Mars or
Disneyland
It was an untouchable
Part of his past.

Last October,
Our Pastor told the Bishop
About Bill's poetry.
While he was here, he
Dropped by.
Bill did his funny ones
Two or three
And mentioned in passing
He had written some
Serious Poems
About his war.

The Bishop asked to hear one, so
Bill went away and came
Back with
"Body Burning Detail."
Halfway through it,
He broke down.

I just remember him
Sitting there,
Shaking,
His agony
His anguish
Pouring down his face
And suddenly,
For me,
It was real.
I could feel
with my heart
and soul
What he could never
Describe
I think
I began to
Understand.

from the Bishop

I have a natural connection
With Bill
My Great-Aunt was born
near the ranch where
He works.
I like cowboys
Love Poetry,
enjoyed his story
about coming to Lander
to Recover.
He recited some funny poems,
We laughed and laughed.
It's all great

Then Bill said
There is something I've never
Read before I wonder
If it would be all right.
He took it out
began to read.
It became quiet
By the time he had to stop
We all were weeping.
When it was over,
We sat and talked
and prayed.

I have used Bill's poem
Several times
Since then,

and I carry it with me.

from Bill

I almost couldn't get through
"Body Burning Detail."
I tried
But I couldn't
Speak.
The Bishop said
I'm so sorry
so sorry,
You don't have to
finish it
and I said
Yes I do
Yes
I do

Here's the original ...

The Body Burning Detail

Three soldiers from the North
Burned for reasons
of Sanitation.
Arms shrunk to flippers
Charred buttocks thrust skyward
They burned for five days.
It was hard to swallow
Difficult to eat
With the sweet smoke of seared
Flesh, like a fog,
Everywhere.

Twenty-five years later
They burn still.
Across sense and time
The faint unwelcome odor
Rises in odd places.
With a load of leaves
At the city dump
A floating wisp of smoke
From the burning soldiers
Mingles with the stench
Of household garbage.

Once, while watching young boys
Kick a soccer ball,
The Death Smell filled my lungs.
As I ran, choking
Panic unfolded
Fluttering wings
Of fear and remorse.
A narrow escape.

A letter, snatched from the flames
The day we burned them
Is hidden away
In a shoebox
With gag birthday cards,
Buttons, string, rubber bands.
A letter from home?
The Oriental words,
Delicately framed
Are still a mystery.