Thursday, December 4, 2008

Poetry Vietnam 8

The Forward Observer:
(Foxtrot Oscar)

I bring the cannon’s roar to score,
To kill, to shock, to slash, to gore.
The woods’ green trees in smithereens,
And fish in streams scream out it seems.
Craters mar the wild’s lush, huge floor;
Faunae scat to hide from still more.
Flowers droop and stoop at swishes;
Rounds pound ground upon my wishes.
Little birds flap fast to shelter,
While snakes and bugs helter-skelter.
Wise owls cease their hoots when I shoot;
Jungle jabber wanes then goes mute.
Pit vipers wiggle from the scene,
And temper the glow of their sheen.
Brazen oxen stamp their tough hooves;
Spiders scurry to their Earth’s grooves.
Tigers! Tigers! All burning bright,
Running from sight from out of fright.
King cobra sways its death brattle,
In vain against the King of Battle.
Babbling baboons bite their big tongues—
Air seeping slowly out their lungs.
Pythons writhe then glide in water,
Safe from Arty’s salvos of slaughter.
Leeches creep fast to deep crannies,
Puckers puckered in blasphemies.
Wild boar heaves swiftly to steep land,
Far-off from the artilleryman.
Chimps and imps scatter on high vines,
Warned by the din of my shells’ chimes.
Bushes bear the blasts of fragments,
Shrapnel pocks without discernment.
Mission ended; wood upended;
Recon teams report the wounded.
I bring the cannon’s roar to score,
To kill, to shock, to slash, to gore.

26 September 1997

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