These are short poems about mostly my experiences on a naval minesweeper.

I have read and commented on poems of
others. These are three short poems
for others to comment on, if they wish:

A Passing

The dim swart oblong off the bow below the sea surface
slowly gains colors, the yellow and tan of polished shoes,
then four moving limbs, an up-jutting head, a carapace,

and lastly, a being, gorgeous in the blue amphibian (meaningless
a thousand miles at sea), a turtle, hundred fold heavier
than its cousins in the inland creeks at home; we will slowly pass.

Without fins, scales, or propelling tail, it paddles about
as my spaniel puppy in this my first ever sighting, seemingly not
headed anywhere, idling, of companions
companions solely without.

About amidships a swell lifts it deck
to look
me squarely in the eye to exult in its
long swims and remind
of their victory over the hares. But
from a subliminal nook

in my brain different notions arise;
swift porpoise lark
about in schools, small black whales
swim by in lanquid pods,
tuna roil the sea in numbers uncount-
able; even stingaree and shark

do not swim so singly; you, turtle,
alone are so alone,
awkward dog paddler, only half at home;
astern now you are
the lonesomest thing I have ever
seen; I poignantly reckon

as I stare at you fading awayl, that
my own war-, sea-
small-ship loneliness pales beside
your birth-bound solitude,
and that for this day, maybe more,
lightens my bounden war legacy.

Point of View

They are noble, people say,
and they are too
in what they do,
guide the blind on the way.

But have you ever known
a Seeing Eye Dog
that didn't slog,
duty-depressed, head down.

So you who turn to admire
think too how great
the old wolf's forfeit
to eat leftovers, sleep by the fire.

At Fukuoka

I step ashore and
see
only streets, bare streets,
nothing along them
to bespeak a city
where
once stood
homes, hospitals, hotels,
courthouses, firehouses, butchershops,
fish markets, cafes, groceries,
dairies, playgounds, schools,
post offices, drugstores, factories,
stadiums, temples, churches.

Inside the now
two dimensional
polygon street geometry
there is only
rubble
work product of long-distance, lever-
pulling, switch-pressing , bomb-blasting
war
by unblooded fly-boys
who saw only brown puffs
or bright flashes,
no dismembered mothers,
no charbroiled children,
far below.

Along the polygons
I make out
not a lintel, not a stud, not a fascia,
not a jamb, not a door frame, not a pillar,
not a rafter, not a joist, not a gable,
not a stair step, not a table, not a see-saw,
not a butcher block, not a pew, not an alter,
not a law book, not a fire hose, not a school desk,
only charred shattered
rubble.

Although two of these have some rhyme, I don't normally write in rhyme.