A fine novel; If only it wasn't so damn real; The last trails of his first cigarette evaporated into the morning- Glaring light through the moth eaten shades; Looked alot like french lace, dripping thick with nicotine- He imagined his lungs looked the same- Catching a glimpse of his silohette on the far wall; Hair unkept; Was he getting shorter? Or was his eyes growing dimmer? At this stage of the game, it didn't seem to matter anymore.
Sounds from the street, sucked him into the vortex of a thousand lifetimes and nightmares ago- Again he'd step from that chopper, into the sweatbox of Nam, just him and twelve others; Crisp and fresh like an icebox salad- It was as though everything he knew and held dear was perforated and ripped instantly from his grasp- Each of their eyes met within seconds; For some, it would be the last-"Let's go find the war, before it finds us." Those words sounded alot like something he'd heard in a Saturday matinee- Maybe he did; but at this stage of the game, it didn't seem to matter anymore.
Those that had been here, was light on advice; Those that were on their way, were over confident and clueless- He'd heard stories; but now wasn't the time for deciding which ones were true and which ones weren't- Truth, was the chopper was gone; and the war was looking for them, in a much more fast and furious manner than they were for it- Truth, was being fortunate enough to make it out of here, with all you got here with- Sane mind; Whole body; Hell, who was he kidding? Just to get out would be enough- After thirteen months truth didn't exist; and at this stage of the game it just didn't seem to matter anymore.
He felt the empty cigarette pack surrender its shape beneath his grip; Tossing it toward the overflowing can; He reached for another- Just to get out really wasn't enough, and the truth was so far gone, it had no meaning anymore- or, did it ever? Out of the thirteen that stepped off that chopper, ten came home in peace- Him and two others, weren't among them- At this stage of the game, it just doesn't seem to matter anymore
Nobody writes hero poems like you do; no one cares as deeply for those who go to war and sacrifice everything like you do. This is no exception--compelling, tight poetry that gives the heart a squeeze. Well done!
Poetic excellence depicts "a fine novel" through this,
"A Fine Novel", where contents and art abound and enrich
THE AMERICAN FINE LETTERS.
I salute You, Poet!
Andre Emmanuel Bendavi ben-YEHU
Reviewed by Elizabeth Taylor (Reader)
Reviewed on February 24, 2006
Wow, Lisa, what a story poem, and goes right to the gut.
You do these so well, and remind us all of what a hero truly is.
I wish they would all come home and safe and sound.
Thanks for this.
Lisa you already know I agree with the others here. I hope and pray your words get to be read by many of the vets who will see that there is someone who does know how they feel. You do get in their heads and write about them better than anyone I've read, and I'm talking professional now. so get that book going and God bless you!
This story is too realistic of combat veterans facing the unseen but deadly enemy. You get inside the head of these veterans and poise the unthinkable hell they come home to and relived in vivid dreams that are always with them. Excellent portrayal.
This poem has my head in a swirl, Lisa. Your words made me a part of the confusion and perhaps even apathy this man now experiences. What a hell-hole for those people (kids) to have been dropped into; no idea how to negociate the jungle and no idea from how many sides the enemy was approaching. Perhaps chain-smoking will finally end his life-long suffering over the gruesome sights he witnessed and was a direct part of but of which he does not dare speak for fear that the nightmare will once again become too real to face. This one grabs and holds on tightly to the reader who is left with a sense of wanting to know this man, but with an understanding of the reality that he will never open up to anyone. The nightmares will die with him. Excellent story/poem, Lisa and another keeper of yours.
Take care,
Sherry
Reviewed by Jerry Bolton (Reader)
Reviewed on February 24, 2006
Gritty piece of writing here, Lisa, and I assume this will be one of the poems in your book. You suck in the reader to places they might not really care to go, but it is impossible to not take that first step into the mind of this man, who was a child only months earlier. The utter confusion of his thinking would be sad, except for the fact that he is, at least, thinking and that is the sure fire way of peace within, or at least as much peace as possible after having to witness what he has, and do what he has done. You might be able to notice that I liked this poem very much.
Still Living on my Feet is the follow up to Tichaona Chinyelu’s first book, In the Whirlwind, which was rooted in a sense of hard-hitting revolutionary black love. However, in this sophomore effort, Tichaona brings the revolutionary essence from deep
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Birgit and Roger
Felix
Another spellbinder from you; absolutely brilliant and heartfelt poem! BRAVA!
(((HUGS))) and much love, your friend in Burleson, Karen Lynn. :D
Nobody writes hero poems like you do; no one cares as deeply for those who go to war and sacrifice everything like you do. This is no exception--compelling, tight poetry that gives the heart a squeeze. Well done!
(((HUGS))) and love, and thank you, Karla.
Poetic excellence depicts "a fine novel" through this,
"A Fine Novel", where contents and art abound and enrich
THE AMERICAN FINE LETTERS.
I salute You, Poet!
Andre Emmanuel Bendavi ben-YEHU
You do these so well, and remind us all of what a hero truly is.
I wish they would all come home and safe and sound.
Thanks for this.
Elizabeth
Thanks for sharing your gifts with us!
eT
Take care,
Sherry