DYING
A Trilogy of Poems by Richard D. Preston, Anthony W. Pahl, and Lucille J. Biscaglio
Part 1:
THEY WERE DYING TO GO HOME
They stood on the edge of reality
Dwelled upon the edge of doom
Their thoughts were often clouded
Underneath the Viet Nam moon
They talked of times gone past
And of their sweetest dreams
They buried the past as well as themselves
As they forded the jungle streams
They fought fatigue and desolation
Thirst and sleepless nights
Their home a hole, their meal from a box
Lived in hell for others rights
A letter written and tucked away
In a pocket near their heart
They hoped it would never be sent
Upon their death the two would part
They deemed each day to be their last
Death present where ever they roamed
While deep inside they understood
They were just "Dying" to go home
They stood on the edge of reality
Dwelled upon the brink of doom
Their thoughts were often "silenced"
Underneath the Viet Nam Moon.
©Copyright May 1, 2000 by Richard D. Preston
Part 2:
DYIN' TO GET HOME
Open your eyes you bastard
we want you here right now
say something; come on digger
your friends are all around.
Squeeze my hand you bloody wanker
still light in this here day
work to be done old cobber
can't sleep the day away.
Talk to me you arsehole
tell me that bloody joke again
got a tinny and a smoke here
at least show that you're in pain.
I'll help you to your feet mate
the chopper's on the way
you'll be Ok you silly bastard
not your turn to die today.
Some stupid bloody performance!
Open your eyes so you can see.
Breathe, you rotten arsehole
don't bloody die on me!
Shit mate - you're not a lifer
ten days an' you're out'a here
the round eye sheilas 'll love ya
have no bloody fear.
Fair dinkum mate! Come off it
you're scarin' shit out'a me
We're all dyin' to bloody get home...
Please God swap him for me!
©Copyright 1 May 2000 by Anthony W. Pahl
Part 3:
DYING THEY CAME HOME
On the edge of reality they stood
beneath the same moon
with arms,
when harm
was imminently present.
Would that they could go home soon
The words they spoke were different
but they sounded just the same
as friends
and ends
were oh too often evidenced
by their mingled heat and pain
The brothers, the mates, the whispers
beneath the moon they viewed
with longing
but belonging
to communities of air and tents
and visions of home were skewed
Poised thus ~ they never knew with certainty
what the next moon would reveal
but oh
just so
they could see it from a constant
home! Perhaps their hearts might heal.
From their homes in different places
they're near
and hear
they also died to come home ~ spent
still their heart wear the same faces
Mates and brothers returned with them
Home behind the moon is where they are
they reach
and teach
them that they're not so different
No trade ~ always were, always are never far.