One cold November, in the not-too-distant soon
the echoes of these shores will ever silent be
as fewer come each year to where their pals were strewn;
on Omaha, among the rest of war’s debris.
Fewer again will hear cannons roar, a rifle’s snap,
a bullet’s thwack, the screams of pain, the corpsman call.
And yet they come, the few, in regimental cap
across from far and wide, to stand, salute, recall.
One cold November, when the last of them has gone
will we still hear the echoes of the silent shore?
Will we remember what it is for us they won?
Or is it just the closing of another door?
secret tattoos
a three-masted schooner tattoo on his bare chest
my father tosses us each
high into the air and we squeal with delight
make it sail for us.
he rubs his ocean belly and his ship rolls swoons
dips for us and we
dont know he is fading like the lines of the ink
geisha with parasol seducing
on his right arm or blue-red butterfly on his left calf
that doesn’t fly like he no longer
can and sailor you never told us how you raced
behind marines on strange pacific beaches
tagging mates to live and fleeing their dying
screams: at sixteen summers young
nebraska boy belongs in fields of wheat or corn
or a soda shop on main street.
their bone splinters and flesh shreds mingling with sand
still cry in his ears save me brother
help me mother oh god please shoot me bob don’t
leave me leave me. leave me.
tides lapping at the shores of his memory will wash
his secret tattoos.
Rb 90
for my father, a Navy corpsman who served
in two wars.
"I want my Mommy.I want my Mommy",
I heard the young man cry.
That's how I made my living.
Watching young men die.
The boy had taken a bullet,
Right around mid-thigh.
It cut through his femoral artery.
Soon he'd bleed out dry.
I took my index finger.
I stuck it in the hole.
I tried to make a tourniquet,
But I couldn't find a pole.
I could feel his lifeblood pulsing.
I just couldn't make it stop.
As the bullets flew around my head,
I could hear the pop,pop,pop.
My rifles butt exploded.
It had taken a direct hit.
I found that I was thanking God.
I'd found my tourniquet.
I prepared the lad for transport,
To take him back to base.
When I turned around he was dead.
He'd taken three rounds in the face.
He was gone, so I moved on,
Amidst the constant cry.
That's how I made my living,
Watching young men die.
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