Before I get on with poetry, allow me to remind you that the deadline to the current #farmpunk fiction writing contest is tomorrow--Monday, October 15, 2018, midnight EST. I've already received a few entries, but there can never be too many. If you're working on a story, it's time to think about wrapping it up and putting it in the submission box.

Poetry is Hell

Today's poem is another post-Iraq War verse. It's free verse with a very dark theme, but, like almost all of my poems, it contains a message worth thinking about.

You'll find very little evidence within the poem for the event that sparked it. While I was deployed, one of the soldiers in my unit--one of the best pistol shooters in the entire state of Texas, in fact--accidentally shot himself. He subsequently died.

I'll spare the gory details, but it all boils down to a single act of stupidity. In an attempt to prove to another soldier the weapon wasn't loaded, he confidently pointed it at himself and pulled the trigger violating every gun safety rule Americans are taught as soon as we know what guns are. An honored and decorated soldier should have known better. War's hell extends well beyond the obvious perils.

Our unit grieved collectively over this soldier's mishap. Individually, I grieved in my own way. "Carcass" was my stream of tears. It still is.

Carcass

He lies lifeless,
worthless as a goldfinch.
The blood map of his young life
trickles down his face.
You see the sharp exit wound of happiness
in his crown, a testament
to the stupidness of war.
The bird in her cage sings
the afterlife and you wonder if,
when you enter heaven,
she will have confessed your sins
for you before you get there.
Sometimes the enemy taunts you
through your own fears, your failures,
your desires, and comes back
through the mirror of the other man.
The void of his countenance
yells at you through the eyelids
of the future, becomes the visage
of your own losses, your gullible
hopes, and the sacred part
you would play in their demise.
Then you hear through sobbing
gasps for breath the words
that will ring in your heart
forever, lingering like a sad rain:
“It’s time to call for backup, sir.
The camp is not secure.”