Big guns shake earth beneath cordite fog that fills soul void.
Three days without nights without end machines rain death on poets entangled in wire
Exploded body bits red wet clouds and flesh counted by canteens.
As limos vomit gowns and black ties whisked to ballroom stage Oscar shines basks in worship light of those who care nothing of canteens.
(A poem I penned in memory of an event in early July 1967, when a count of North Vietnamese canteens was necessary.)
At the Sea
Cool sand still damp from morning mist warming now by early sun. Gulls breakfast in receding tide sharing kinship with the waves that draw me back to primal roots embedded in the sea.
