Here is a peak at a few poems from my next book, entitled, "Dimly Seen Through The Mist."
Independence Day
"And the rocket's red glare, bombs bursting in air." The echoes of patriotism haven't died in my town. You can't get America down. Flag waving isn't an anachronism. Of all the colors of a prism, We prefer red, white, and blue around. The echoes of patriotism haven't died in my town. Americans are kidnapped, put in prison, and it seems lack of pride abounds. Rest assured we are in for a penny and pound. Salute the flag when the band plays the echoes of patriotism. "And the rocket's red glare, bombs bursting in air."
Independence Day II
It is a secession of airport terminals, North Dakota, Minneapolis, Cleveland, Detroit, Bangor. Eat a cardboard lunch from a cardboard tray. Pre-September 11, when you got silverware. Everything is a hurry. Next gate for a nap before Dreaded late boarding calls. Everyone races by like NASCAR on speed. Clear skies over Bangor. Eighteen hours after waking we taxi to the Terminal. Digger and Al drive me up Route 9 to Eastport And I unroll my blue uniform in a speeding Dodge. Yank on pants, button shirt, parade starts in two hours.
Into The Night
Into the night I wandered, with my uniform on, thermals, and a heavy parka. In my backpack I carry a face mask, gloves, and a thick hat. The driving, windblown snow grips at car tires, threatening to slow and stop forward progress, but I slowly motor on. Driveway to unplowed lane, street to street, past the yellow flashing light. The empty roads are mine, even snowplow drivers seem to have the night off, until I get to the flight line. It seems that paths need to be kept clean for war machines. A rudimentary effort has been made to make taxiways semi-passable so we can go about our business. I would like to complain about having to work when the rest of the base and northern tier is snowed in and many are sleeping soundly, but grimly I go about my duty and do what I do, because I do it with love for you. Know we are on call and on the job, day and night, so you can wake to morning's light, safe and secure, no matter if the night is beautiful and calm, or if it snows a foot or more. Into the night I wandered, with my uniform on. I bundle a bit more and try harder to smile, but keeping you safe makes it all worthwhile.
JULY FOURTH
Jumbled memories of the past.
Under a hot sun,
Lined up at attention to bury a veteran.
Years in uniform honored at his graveside.
Flag folded carefully,
Only blue and 3 stars show.
Under a hot sun,
Riflemen fire 21 shots.
Taps from a battered polished bugle.
Here lies a real American Hero.
Joe Meyer
At the Richland County Courthouse The POW-MIA Flag snaps in the breeze. The Veteran’s memorial casts a cold shadow. Joseph Meyer is coming home today. Welcome him. May he rest in peace. In December of 1950 he picked up his M-1, once again to join the battle That raged on in North Korea far across the seas. A hometown boy, from Wahpeton, North Dakota, he had dreams of being the first in his family to fight for his country in this war. For fifty-seven years, his family waited for Joe Meyer to come home, clutching old letters and warm memories of the boy they lost. Fifty-seven years is a long time to be sleeping, unnamed in the ground so far across the seas. The first letter came, “I will be shipping to Korea In the morning with the boys. I am excited and scared But ready to fight.” Another letter posted later Told of excitement and anticipation of seeing nieces and nephews Born after he left Wahpeton, North Dakota. Only a year after Joe left home, A telegram came, the way they seem to: Private Joseph Meyer (stop) is missing from his post (stop) and feared killed in action. (stop). A tear in his father's eye, and his mother's heart stopped. How does a boy just get lost, And why did he want to go All the way over there? Search missions and patrols over torn, hallowed ground never found his broken body. His drab green duffle Was repacked And put on a transport, Headed back to Wahpeton, North Dakota. Except for in the hearts and minds of a lonely family, It would seem that Joe Meyer slowly faded into memory. The fighting finally stopped And his lonely mass grave Slowly became part Of a tortured land That nature was reclaiming. Faded memories and dashed hopes Of news came and went as decades Slowly marched along; Fifty-seven years of empty spaces at tables. Fifty-seven years of births, deaths, funerals. Like the echo of ground fire in the far off battles Joe Meyer faced, science caught up with the hard facts of war. Family members gave DNA sample in 1997, not expecting much, but slowly stoking and banking long tended fires of hope. It seems The Army doesn’t send letters Or telegrams anymore, But in a cozy kitchen On a Wahpeton winter day The telephone rang away. “A positive match has been made Of remains found in North Korea.” Joe Meyer came home To Wahpeton, North Dakota today. Welcome this returned hero. May he rest in peace.
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