Echos from Vietnam and beyond


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Echo’s from Vietnam and beyond

By Dr. Jack Apsche


Published by ePrintedBooks

Copyrights by Dr. Jack Apsche

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including recording, photocopying, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the publisher.


Somewhere near Hill 837 in Vietnam the Republic of in early 1967, cleaning my M-60. I am not sure who the kid in the picture actually is, rumor has it it was me at 18.




This book of poems is dedicated the people who have been in my life, who inspired my writing.  You know who you are and if not make something up!


Table of Contents



Section One

Section Two

Section Three

Section Four

Section Five

About the Author


Section One

I Believe

Steam Trails Revisited


The mist blinks thru

The deep green vegetation

The humidity form the month’s monsoon

Creates steam trails

From body heat

My flesh has rotted

In every crevice

Of my skin

And I smell like

Meat left out on

The sidewalk for a

Week in July

I won’t ever get dry

Unless I get wrapped

In a poncho


And flown home

For a ceremony of

A select few

Who might attend


Attempt to remember

That I once was human

And dreamed

The dreams


The innocent

Walter Cronkite


That’s what I miss

Clean video

Tight shot’s


Walter Cronkite

Drug related

And Vietnam

Hot cities

And Urban guerillas

Fashionable radicalism

Its long gone

Walter Cronkite’s

Body count

Anonymity in number’s

People dying

On the front page

Or Time


For the dinner meals

And empty boots lined up

After Dak To

In the Inquirer

Beat poems

Hip phrases


Anonymity in number’s

More body counts

1 miss

Anti-war music

Hot groups

Lost hope

No dope

Kill a slope

Orange joke

Beat poems, man

Where ya been?

It’s all gone now

Just like

Walter Cronkite

Hard to Find

Love poems are hard to find

These days

So I decided to write one

For you

Instead we went to bed

Made love


And again

The Group

We walk past the wall

And look at the names

Of the dead

We look far away from

Each other

As we don’t know

Who would die


If we were



The Village

The village was surrounded

We were in an ugly mood

Several men went down

There was no enemy

To be found

We torched the village

An old man climbed

Up on his hooch

To put out the fire

Polly butt stroked

Him across the mouth

As he lay there bleeding

My thoughts raced

But I did my job

Carried out my

M 16 diplomacy



Where did the

Simplicity of

Childhood go

Where there was

No order


Right or wrong




Words were

Just words

Sentences complicated


Of organized religion

No jesus

Rather vague concepts

And childhood


Of wonders of

How things were before vague

Concepts of death

Or afterlife

Joe Something

I was in base camp

Black Horse for

A rest, and I

Ran into this guy

From High School

His name was Joe something

He was on shit burning


We exchange some

Bullshit stories

The stars and stripes

Reported that

A guy named Joe something




We walk around Washington

After midnight

Feeling the eerie silence

Of the wall

A grave site

For the dead

A curiosity

For the living

Touching the name

Of someone

We loved

In our way

Of loving

Looking for our

Names on the wall

And silently

Questioning if

We ever left


Living is what we do

In between

With or without

Tomorrow’s expectations


Death is death

Especially without

Living in yesterday

Or in between


Or death

Ramp Gunner

With my feet dangling

Above the treetops

I watched the

Tracer’s dance

In a white schizoid hue

Beneath my feet

I promised God

I would become

A priest

Or a


That day

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