DROPPING THE BALL
This field doesn’t have any grass. How she
misses the smell of fresh cut grass.
There is no cheering crowd.
Just a bunch of soldiers
playing softball. Before the cotton candy sky
is swallowed up. She waits her turn at bat.
When Sergeant Chaplain walks up to her.
Be at the BDOC Conference room.
Tomorrow. 0430. She starts to speak.
When he says, “I can’t tell you anymore.”
She goes to the plate. Swings and
not quite gets the meat of the bat on the ball.
So her eye blooms black and blue.
The seam engraved on her cheek bone
as a Lieutenant yells for someone to get some ice.
At 0430, she is told to guard a door
while other soldiers bring in the local interpreters.
This reminds her when she once saw some Indians
netting fish. She is reaching out to her childhood.
Trying to grab onto what is left. --There is a few seconds
where the ball is suspended in the air. When all is quiet
like a mortar right before it hits the ground.
I can tell you. There is no cheering crowd.
A young girl
gets a shot of me.
Old men stand
taking off their hats
over their hearts.
“thank you for your service”
as women sob silently.
I march in cadence to hallow claps
holding the sign of a fallen comrade
Specialist Nicholas Newby
from Coeur d’Alene Idaho.
We march in four columns
each one representing a death.
War has seen to their blood being pressed out.
Their loved ones tears being pressed out.
Because the removal of moisture
preserves them for a long time to come.
Although the colors, I mean life
will fade slightly during the drying process.
Their lives were cut short
like picked flowers.
Preserved in full bloom-without the chance
to live out their season.
When will we learn?
Pressed flowers are trite
a needless thing.
Then a woman hands me fresh daffodils.
WRITE YOUR POEM!
Why do you write on a daily basis? What's your habits around writing? The habit makes you understand more and more subtle changes. You grow. It is with that habit that you suddenly break through and have a new line.
Write your poem!
Write your poem!