Description
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.
Dedication
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
Copyrights
Dedication
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
Tagged
And flown home
For a ceremony of
A select few
Who might attend
And
Attempt to remember
That I once was human
And dreamed
The dreams
Of
The innocent
Walter Cronkite
That’s what I miss
Clean video
Tight shot’s
Close-ups
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
Entertainment
For the dinner meals
And empty boots lined up
After Dak To
In the Inquirer
Beat poems
Hip phrases
And
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
Rested
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
First
If we were
There
Again
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
Buried
Where did the
Simplicity of
Childhood go
Where there was
No order
Or
Right or wrong
Learning
Understanding
Kindness
Words were
Just words
Sentences complicated
Responsibilities
Of organized religion
No jesus
Rather vague concepts
And childhood
Memories
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
Detail
We exchange some
Bullshit stories
The stars and stripes
Reported that
A guy named Joe something
Was KIA
Vietnam
Veterans
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
Life
Living is what we do
In between
With or without
Tomorrow’s expectations
Or
Death is death
Especially without
Living in yesterday
Or in between
Life
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
Saint
That day
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