Letting Go

An old man stands as straight as time allows, tears form and follow the deep lines in his face... and he lets it go. His reflection shimmers in the black stone, behind the names of those he has known as a bugle plays its mournful tones...and he lets it go. The flag snaps in the wind, a symbol of those who died and those who came home again, hurt, angry and alone, abandoned by those who should have known what it takes to be free...and he lets it go. Turning, he walks slowly away, weeping for what was lost, for what was gained, of what had to be... an old man, much like you, much like me

copyright, e.w. richardson, 1998

Freedoms Wings

The bird with the golden tail lifts me on freedom's wings taking me home. . . home to family and friends, hot showers, cold beer and the girl I left behind. Parts of me remain with those I fought beside and I cherish their memories...poignant, bittersweet. . . Now, three decades later, the memories are still as strong, and I wonder how the others are dealing with the horrors of the war we could not leave behind.

copyright, e.w. richardson, 1999

Dragon Fire

The night is alive with thunder and lightning, man made with mortars, bombs and artillery... Machine guns firing tracers, green and red, fill the air with visible death that screams over our heads. The night turns to day and we all hunker down... Puff has arrived, about to have his way and in the light of his night killing flare, the enemy tries to hide... no chance... With a deep drone he breathes his fire... like streamers of blood it washes the land, until the only things moving, are those that are dying. The flare burns out and night returns... all is still and dark, except for the Dragon, invisible in the sky, humming in satisfaction.

copyright, e.w. richardson, 1999

Booby Trap

With each tentative step I cringe, waiting to be blown to hell... such is the lot of the point man... It is not a job I like but we all have to take a turn... Another step... a little further and still no sign of Charlie... and I am still alive... Another step... I freeze... No movement, not even to breathe, for I can feel it across my knee... trip wire... booby trap... to move forward is to die... to step back is to die... I taste brass... Slowly, I turn just my head and tell the rest to get down... When they are safe, my decision made, I send a prayer to heaven and throw myself, back and down... the wire snaps... the igniter pops and smokes... it does not explode... a dud... I won... this time.

copyright, e.w. richardson, 1999

We Were Young Then

Looking back over the years, three decades or more ago, we were young and blissfully unaware of how our lives would change. Back then, we were strong, filled with bright dreams but as we entered that war, pain became our companion. Ah, yes, we were young then, but many of us, here and now can still feel the sickness, the injury, the death... and we still feel the pain... it is all a part of our dreams. We were young then and some returned only in memories, faded photographs or as names chiseled into a black, stone wall.... all of us lost a part of ourselves. We are no longer young, but deep inside there resides something uniquely ours... hearts that fill with pride when we see the flag popping in the wind, eyes that fill with tears at the sound of taps... and when we meet, we are brothers, bonded forever by war.

copyright, e.w. richardson, 1999

Ballade To Battle and it's Aftermath

Death reside in the jungle night, invisible, it gives no warning. Through the darkness and silver moonlight, silently, wings slowly beating, it's always there, patiently waiting, hovering above until called. Have you heard the cries of dying? When was the last time you prayed? Every sound, ever so slight, can herald the beginning. The dogs of war howl with delight as men in ambush, crouching, are ready to start the killing... eyes wide, muscles tense, yet, prepared. Is that fear you are smelling? When was the last time you prayed? There is no time for fright, as the guns begin firing. All that matters is the fight and the grim business of surviving... and the grimmer business of killing, until it is ended. Is that you or your buddy crying? When was the last time you prayed? You awaken...you've been dreaming of memories long hidden...now released. How may more lay waiting? When was the last time you prayed?

copyright, e.w. richardson, 1999

I Saw A Man

I saw a man in the park today, sitting alone, under a tree, surrounded by a serenity so peaceful and strong, even the wind's gusty play meekly respected his tranquillity. The man was writing in a book, whose cover was battered and stained and though he sat some distance away, I could hear the scratch of the pen... an oddly soothing sound...like a whisper of someone softly singing a hymn... or reciting from a book of prayer. Once, he raised his eyes from his work and in his eyes were anger and pain... and a hardness of once having seen horrors not meant for the eyes of man... and I knew him then... he is one of those remarkable men, who have looked the devil in the eye and laughed, spit in that eye, and survived... only to be forgotten, the sacrifice and contributions ignored or outright denied. Yet, there he sits, peaceful and calm, enjoying the simplicity of the day... perhaps with an understanding of how to open life's many doors, reserved for those, who have fought our wars.

copyright, e.w. richardson, 1999

The Price of Freedom

"Incoming!", someone yells and I fall from sleep into hell. Overhead comes the maniacal shriek of a rocket or artillery shell, while green tracers arc pass, hissing.... "Death!" "Blood!" "Destruction!" ... all against a backdrop of orange red as napalm shoots across the field like Satan's ejaculate... a flaming seed that consumes, not fertilizes. It all falls apart, suddenly... the fabric of the dream ripping in a whispered scream of rotted cloth... and I return to the uncertain and harsh reality of now... but the sweet stench  of the napalm lingers... I get up...light up a cigarette and wash the oily sweat from my face... in the mirror, when I look up is a middle aged man... hair a little grey...lines and wrinkles shockingly distinct... the eyes are a thousand yards deep. This is the price of freedom.

copyright, ewrichardson,2000

The Pledge

The pond's surface is mirror smooth--it reflects the sky and silver moon, which floats among the lily pads and hides beneath them from time to time. In the air, the fairies dance in and out of the silver light, delighting the eye. I watch them at their dance and play, and memories return to me. . . when by this pond, under a shadowed moon, we made a pledge to one another. In March it was, The Ides is was. We had nothing to beware, only love, strong and true. And now, what is this I hear? Why, it is you, come to me, surrounded by fairy light, as am I. . . for all spirits are illuminated so, according to lore… and together at last, we make good our pledge, made those many years ago when I left to go to war.

copyright, ewrichardson,1998

War Games

When I was young, more years ago than I care to think about now, my friends and I use to play at war... cowboys and indians vikings knights in shining steel soldiers and space marines fighting slimy, bug eyed aliens. Sometimes we were wounded, sometimes we died, but always dramatically and always heroically. A decade or less later, some of us experienced wars reality... no more games, no heroics, no drama no warm, safe bed, surrounded by loved ones, when the fighting was done for the day. So, I say to you, let the children play... leave them to their games their fantasies their imaginary victories and fun... reality comes swift enough on icy, thunderous wings.

copyright, ewrichardson,2001

Father and Son

I never had time to know you.You were called away so soon to serve a plan I don't understand... such is the way of things. But, I'll do my best for in my heart is a special place where your spirit rests, so I will know you when we meet again. When, like you, I am called and I rise on my spirit's wings, we'll fly together around the sun and laughing, slide down the rainbow's arch, doing things meant to be done, by a father and his son.

copyright, ewrichardson, 1998

Firefight

Breathe...relax... aim...squeeze... shoot... As my instructors told me, the rifle's firing surprised me, slamming hard against my shoulder the bullet tearing a man asunder. I have no time for elation, no time for contemplation as to whether this is wrong or right. All that matters is surviving the fight and going home... and going home. Again and again, I squeeze the trigger, again and again men die... the night is torn with lightning and thunder, a cyclone with me at the eye. When the firefight is over and my fields of fire lay empty we will take the battles tally... as we do, I suddenly wonder... who's really dead, them, or me?

copyright, ewrichardson, 1998

Christmas On Hill 10

The sandbags are warm against my ass, as I sit atop the bunker watching green and red flares bursting, fired not in warning but in celebration of the season... Christmas Eve in Vietnam. I've no patrol tonight, no bunker watch, so here I sit in luxury, a bottle of scotch to keep me company. In the bunker, others members of my squad are singing songs, passing a joint and telling lies about how much tail they got while back in the world. Lights on a tiny Christmas tree filter from the gun ports, the shades matching colors of the flares overhead... a radio battery provides the power...The tree was in my package from home... many got one, some did not, and in the middle of the bunker floor, we stacked our loot, so all could share... gifts… our way of giving... while in each and every mind, we all wanted only one thing... to make it home again... Merry Christmas from Hill 10.

copyright, ewrichardson, 1999

Heroes

The night is dark and deep like the Wall...rows upon rows of names glow in the light of a crescent moon, like webs of frost... Faces appear then fade like ghosts... so young...so young we all were... tears fall in a silent rain and my heart lies cold within my chest. I hear you say we are the heroes... and I want to say... No my brothers...you are the heroes... We all stood proud and tall and some had to fall... For us, the battles are over but you still fight on... Yes, you there in the wheelchair... And you my brother who dreads the coming of sleep... and you my friend who will never again see the stars bright and sharp in the sky... or you, old warrior who cannot hear the silver bell giggles of a granddaughter... and you sister, who comforted us, cried and prayed for us... Stand tall my friends...my brothers... my sisters... cry if you need...but be aware that it is you who are the heroes, for you continue to fight for us, as we did for you... And one day, when your battles are won, we will meet again... and the heavens will rock with the joy of it all.

copyright, ewrichardson, 2002

Never Forget

I had a dream last night, where by some remarkable power I had this incredible sight which allowed me to see every corner of the world. As my gaze sweep here and there, I suddenly became aware of men and women... sometimes alone sometimes together, standing weary, but patiently. They were an odd assembly, from different places and times, yet all were curiously familiar. Then, one by one they saluted me and then I understood... These were the spirits of those brave few who once left the comforts of family and friends to fight for what makes this country good... but they never made it home. I awoke with feelings of regret, but with a new found determination to do what I can in thought, prayer and action to keep their memory alive and never forget...and never forget...

copyright, ewrichardson, 2002

A Stain of Shame

Passing him on the street You would never know. There is nothing About his appearance That tells the tale, But should you look into his eyes Long enough, you will see Heat lightning flashes Flickering within. At one time, he was like you or I…Young, strong, capable, Full of limitless ambitions and dreams. He had his loves, his hates, Dismal failures and grand successes. Perhaps you knew him, Set beside him in home room, Gave birth to him, Loved him. But now there is that faint lightning Behind his eyes, behind his smile… What happened?  War. He is a veteran.What sets him apart  Is that one moment In time… An eternity’s sigh, When he stood, not because he wanted to, But because he felt he had to, And played a game of spades With Death… Trumping the Ace of Spades,  He survived. Where once he was a friend, A lover, family, a man He is now shunned, Ignored, despised, Forgotten…And in that, is a stain of shame Which all the posturing, All the rhetoric, All the politically correct, Religious psychobabble Cannot remove For a countries soul.

© ewrichardson, 2004

The following writting was by me and was featured in the 2003  Veterans day edition of  Distant Echoes, a print journal honoring veterans.

Love Letter From An Army Grunt

Veteran I love you, you who stood up and did your duty when asked. Yes each and everyone of you I love. Those of you who were making a career out of your chosen service, those of you who enlisted to fight in a war or to do what you could to help support those who were fighting. And yes those of you who were drafted I loved you too, you could have ran you could have squeezed yourself into the overflowing colleges but you didn't, you went sometimes with hesitance not knowing or being torn by what you heard, but you served as proudly as any of  the other Veterans.

I loved you Sea Bees you built and and labored so we could live and travel, you stole our beer but I still love you ,that one was on us enjoy it,  and be there for us when we need you too.

I loved you cooks and you mechanics and you typists who made sure my mail and orders got to me. what you did was important to me, whether it was important to others I do not care, I love you too.

I loved you who were in the Air force either working on a jet to assure it would be there for those who needed it, or those Pilots who flew to support and lend your thunder to those of us who were facing eternal loneliness without your support. You know of what I speak.

I loved you who were in the Navy whether you were on an aircraft carrier in the gulf of Tonkin preparing a bird of war to watch over us or you who were riding a destroyer or a patrol boat watching our backs from those who would bring their weapons across the seas to harm us, and those of you who patrolled the rivers ever in danger of ambush daily, you were our brothers in spirit you know of what I speak.

I loved you Marine many of you were my brothers in spirit, you are proud and so be it I am proud of you , yes I love you too I admire your gung ho attitude and your Semper Fi  bring it on we are the Marines.  Many of you will know of what I speak.

I love you Helicopter Pilots and crews oh! you have all of our hearts from the transports to the Gunships with your breath of fire there when needed to watch over us...and held oh so close to our hearts those of you who were our Angels the Dust-off...braving any fire to save my brother.

But most of all I love you my grunt brothers,  and please understand it does not take away from the love of the others, but we shared our C's we shared our cigarettes we shared our fears we shared our ears to hear the screams of our other brothers...yes the tears fell then as they do now as I write...after the bombs and after the fight,  we sat and stared and tried to make sense of what we had just shared, and mourned those who today we still remember those who are etched forever in black granite ....so understand my Brother Vets I love you all ....but understand please they were there to hold me and cry...they walked the paths with me and shared the sights and wraths with me, they were my special brothers those of  who I speak,  I love you most of all. For in the end it was not for God and country but for each other.

ViperAsh50@aol.com
Copyright September 1, 2003

"LEAN, MEAN & SEVENTEEN"

Let me share with you a story, bout a young man seventeen,
Who had plans & dreams of joining the United States Marines . . .

He had taken all the pre-test at a small recruiting store,
Where they told him he had qualified for infantry and more . . .

He was off to San Diego where the sun is scorching hot,
To see if he might have the grit to be what he was not . . .

The days turned into weeks, then months and muscles turned to steel,
a sense of pride & honor filled his heart & soul with zeal. . .

He had conquered all his dragons; he had finally seen the light,
He knew now, what it really meant to be the first to fight . . .

He was Lean, Mean & Seventeen when he donned the Tan & Green,
he had paid the price to earn the name UNITED STATES MARINE. .

He knew that war was looming in some far off distant land,
with heat and bugs and other “demons” buried in the sand,

So, he said a prayer & packed his bags, what else was there to do,
Like so many gone before him, he would fight for me & you . . .

The sweat, the blood, the loneliness were often hard to bare,
A buddy lost within the ranks, the “1000 meter stare”. . .

But the kindred spirit of the Corps and all those that he knew,
would help to keep him focused on the job he had to do . . .

He has stepped into a BROTHERHOOD that few have ever seen,
And wears the Anchor, Globe & Eagle of a UNITED STATES MARINE

All Rights Reserved – Copy Right © 2004/2007 –Former Cpl. Of Marines “Rocky” Fortner© USMC 63-67 (Vietnam 65-66 – L 3/9 & L 3/3)

ODE TO VIET NAM

Nearly forty years have come & gone since I became a man,
T'was in the heat, the rain & blood of Southern Viet Nam. . .
The battle scars run deep within the prison of my soul. . .
I'll not forget the pain, the screams, the horrors of it all.

We hailed from many backgrounds, across this Nation's land. . .
Some dark, some light some thin, some tall, that forged this noble band. . .
We were young and dumb and full of pride, some thought they'd never die,
For we were young Americans raised on "Mom's Hot Apple Pie". . .

Aboard the ships we cleaned our guns & packed our bags or bags to go,
Then "Gunny" yelled, "Let's saddle up -its time to start OUR show". . .
Into the boats we stumbled as the waves banged against the hull. . .
They snarled & dipped and rolled and tossed our stomachs in a ball. . .
A whistle blew, the engines roared and suddenly we knew. . .
T'was time to stand and lock & load, and pray for me & you. . .

As all the boats formed up on line and headed for the shore. . .
My thoughts would wonder back to days, now gone forever more. . .
Little things came back to me, reflecting on the past,
Like high school girls and football games, the smell of fresh cut grass. . .
Like the time I made the track team and became a rising star,
my first drink of the "hard stuff" in some Okinawa bar. . .

Then shots rang out, the ramp went down, now we're standing in the sand, confusion all around us was our first day in "the Nam". . .
A scream was heard, then someone fell and vanished in the smoke. . .
We knew then, this was NOT a dream, a fantasy or joke. . .
We'd never seen men blown apart, or die so painfully. . .
Don't be surprised or full of doubt, we're just young kids you see. . .

Still in our teens were most of us that stepped up to the plate,
and swore that we would NEVER fail to serve our Nation great. .
While poised within torrential rains, our feet forever soaked,
We laughed, we cried, & drank warm beer, & bummed another smoke. . .

We'd count the days that we had left, but EACH seemed like a week. . .
It's tough sometimes to contemplate the things of which I speak. . .
The heat, the rain the smell of blood, gunpowder on our cloths,
young men who share a special bond, no other creature knows . . .

Those gallant boys and men I knew, so daring, young and brave,
So many now lay silently, at peace within their grave. . .
But what of those that made it home, when all was said & done. . .
Were we considered heroes, or a Nation's forgotten sons. . .

Our lives were scarred forever, yet we were NEVER welcomed home. . .
There were no bands, or big parades, nor "Yellow Ribbons" shown. . .
And so we all pretended that it never really mattered,
That all our dreams and inner self. .forever had been shattered. . .

We faded into history, a band of Brothers true,
and tried to make a life within a Nation torn in two. . .
We often drown our sorrows in some local crummy bar,
Pretending it was all a dream, not part of who we are. . .

Realizing all the while the impact that it made,
on each and ever one of us…these memories NEVER fade. . .
No matter what the public thinks we did, or didn't do,
the truth lies deep within the soul of troops like me & you.

We did our time and fought the war that "never really was". . .
We stood our ground and raised our flag for a noble, worthy cause. . .
Be proud to know we did our part & sealed therein our fate. . .
In spite of all the diatribe, indifference and the hate. . .

Who knew what we were called to do would rarely seem to matter,
But ALL would stand the test of time, for those who fought the battles. . .
And now, with gray and thinning hair, my waist expanding well,
I flashback to those yesteryears, a lifetime spent in hell. . .

We ALL have a legacy to share with anyone,
that contemplates the trials of war that kills our Nation's Sons. . .
America, the Beautiful, God shed his grace on thee,
but don't forget the price we've paid, 'Cause freedoms NEVER free. . .

NOW, stand with me and raise your glass to the names upon that wall, and pray that they died NOT in vain, for answering the call. . .Semper Fi.

Copy Right 2004-2007 - All Rights Reserved
"Ode To Viet Nam" By: Former Cpl. Of Marines "Rocky" Fortner
L3/9 & L3/3 - Viet Nam 65-66