From Vietnam to Sydney (1971-a poem)

From Vietnam to Sydney
(A Three Part Poem—1971)


Part One

From Vietnam to Sydney


Drifts and slitters in the sky—a horizontal sun nearby,
not much grass in this city of Sydney, wild cars (scrapes of steel).
Aimlessly from a battered war I came, out of a swarm of
yellow jacks—that circled me: and here, here now I am standing,
downtown—by strange buildings, smells, brittle old buildings
in sight, not far away, by the bay (to be torn town they say).
A park is by my eighth-level hotel; leaves stripped from their branches; by nightfall, the moon will be high on the lake,
like a shadowy tail. All week I softly talked, left: two-hundred miles of walking back and forth, in this city.

Man is the heart of this city, the upshot of rudiments: born
to war, eat, drink and die—; hell with philosophy, there’s enough noise…!

What bothered me from Vietnam to Sydney—(now I know)
someone (they) created a war and nailed it on the cross—to
the only decent carpenter that ever was. I know I must fall—
face doom, but I told myself back then, not in Vietnam.













Part Two

On the Roof Top of the Hotel

I sit here without thought on the roof top of my hotel
(as if—living in a myth) watching the shadows below:
buildings, boats, shadows over the lake, creeping by,
hauntingly in a gray moonlit sky…a few seabirds fly over head,
a few forms of dogs and cats below, they look like dead dots.
It’s a shame I didn’t stay—(soon) to be back to Nam.
Deaths a new shape called –weary!
But I’ll make it through…!
A few birds drift to the rooftop (like spots in the air)
my future defined, I brush the dust from my mind;
rain from the ocean—soaks the air, over the rooftop.
A lady I met comes by, stays the night!
We jump out from under the covers (in the morning)
like seagrass and we both drift away, like seagulls.

(As for me, I will neither snare or grunt or run, I will simple go back to Vietnam…in the morning.)



Part Three

Back Home
(To Minnesota from Vietnam)


When I got back to Minnesota, it was the first day of my world,
new born I felt: bitter coffee, bitter beer, cold dawn,
it was October…How rare to be born a human a second time;
man and beast were now alike; I even thirst for cold snow.
Now I had obscure layers of meaninglessness.
This new world was simply juggling, popular songs;
human tenderness was dry; bones and flesh just walked on by:
no regrets—I was likened to the sparrows, annulled.

And so it was, Vietnam, a mournful web with tall grass,
we were the snared rabbit’s ear; yet we danced on rooftops,
in the swamps, thinking us wise men.
Whirling from nostrils to ears swatting flies—with drunken eyes.



Note: Perhaps this poem is long overdue, it is my first poem on Sydney, Australia, where I stayed on R&R, during my time in Vietnam, 1971. Now after 40-years, I look back, perhaps I sense I now have absorbed it enough, and can express a portion of it. I did write about Sydney in one of the 35-books I wrote, “Where the Birds don’t sing,” but no poems. So I dedicated this one to the Australian Soldiers that served time in the Military in Vietnam, they were brave; and to my friend Ben Szumskyj, from Australia.

((Vietnam: a war poem) (1971))
Vietnam: Like Ants in the Rain

Confused, whirled in a tangle:
Into a land full of voices—
True men of war I met,
Here we had nothing but thoughts
Memories in common—at best;
And we all spoke out our hearts
And minds—
And without regret we did our best
In the sands of Vietnam.

And we all drank from month on month,
Forgetting, or trying to—the finery of home:
And before the end of the day
We scattered like ants in the rain—
Confused, spinning into
Knots of war.



Note: Every so often I like writing a poem about my times in Vietnam (during the war years, 1971). Being in the Mantaro Valley of Peru, the land of the Great Wanka Warrior must bring it out of me: I’m sure they would understand my reasoning.

No: 1848 5-26-2007

Spanish Version

((Vietnam: Un Poema de Guerra) (1971))
Vietnam: Como Hormigas en la Lluvia

Confuso, envuelto en una maraña:
En una tierra llena de voces—
Verdaderos hombres de guerra conocí.
Aquí no teníamos nada más que pensamientos
Memorias en común—por lo mejor;
Y abrimos nuestros corazones
Y mentes—
Y sin arrepentimiento hicimos todo lo posible
En las arenas de Vietnam.

Y todos bebimos mes a mes,
Olvidando, o tratando de olvidar—las galas de casa:
Y antes del final del día
Nos dispersábamos como hormigas en la lluvia—
Confusos, girando dentro de
Nudos de guerra.


Nota: Cada cierto tiempo me gusta escribir un poema sobre el tiempo que pasé en Vietnam (durante los años de guerra, 1971). Estando en el Valle del Mantaro de Perú, la tierra del Gran Guerrero Wanka debo traerlo fuera de mí: Estoy seguro que ellos entenderían mi razonamiento.

# 1848 26-Mayo-2007

Three Poems: The Rocks; Coffee; and The Harvest Dance (and Commentary)

The Rocks
(Rapturous poetry)

Friend, please tell me what is wrong with me?
Or is it perhaps the world?
For I told myself, it could be either way!

I gave up drinking, smoking and gambling,
and I never swore, but then I started to.

So I prayed on that, and went after women
instead, and became compulsively attracted.

I went and got married to give up women
and just have one, and I started up swearing again.

I worked hard at trying to figure myself out,
pushing aside pride, greed, lust, envy and gout!

And every time I take my inventory, I find one
more issue, that had been hidden under a rock!

“Listen up Friend, there’s only been one
who has ever been able to kick over those rocks
and find nothing of value to talk about…!”


No: 1955 8-29-2007 In this poem I try to put what I call eccentric energy into its rebellious branches; a tinge of spirituality; the ego and the body play a role here, and how a man may try to prepare himself for death, trying to subdue his impulsive nature, be it sexual, or excessive energy in other so called, taboo areas: acted out and un-acted out desires. The rocks, or rock, are ones invitation to look under it, for there is where you will find your problem, the situation is always on top, and thus the problem has to be under the rock. This is an old Hindu style form of poetry.




Death by the Numbers
(A short Commentary)

Death comes and goes as quick as the shifting of gears in a car for this world’s population (s). If one makes it to 60-years old, it has been said, he or she is lucky. Not because of health reasons per se, but because we live in a dangerous world, for the most part. One can die a thousand ways, just leaving the house for eight hours. Compile that to 60-years x 365-days, equals: 21,900 days to have been killed in, and thus, that same number, is how many times you have avoided death. The odds are not in ones favor; if one believes 1000-times a day he could have been killed (by transportation accidents, killers, tripping and falling, getting cancer, a chicken bone, etc), this equals: let’s add three more zeros to that, and it comes out to be: 21,900,000 chances to have been killed in the past sixty-years. Most people never do seem to catch sight of this. We become too carefree. But death is not no scarecrow, it lingers all about, like white on rice. Perhaps we have a guardian angel, it sure would seem so in my way of thinking.












Harvest Dance
(Carnaval de Guiliudraca)

The little Wanka girls bounce on their feet
like rubber balls!
Dressed in green and red…
like cucumbers, and tomatoes.
The boys hop up and down;
almost all in black (blue striped shirts)
they are going to pluck the roots from the ground
it’s harvest time.



Dedicated to Reina Giron Director of ‘Rosa de America School’ in Huancayo, Peru; poem written while watching the children dance, and attending the activities; the author danced the dance of the ‘Santiago’ at the Saint Rosa festivities at the school (8-30-2007). And there was dances of Cuzco with their colorful red and black hats.





Coffee, Coffee, Coffee
(Coqui –Bakery Coffee)


Dark — coffee beans and cream
the pure, engaging, straight-splitting
(with a snap)
sunburned latté, thick like the glass
stirred-lightly—like smooth stones,
down to the cellar of my stomach
it’s poured; a living river! …
riding flatcars in the summer!



Inspired by Elizabeth, dedicated to Carmon and Koki; No. 1957, 8-30-2007, in Huancayo Peru. If I enjoy anything in life, it is a good cup of coffee, and it it can be a latte, all the better. The best Coffee in Huancayo, is at Coqui’s.

From Vietnam to Sydney (A Three Part Poem—1971)

From Vietnam to Sydney
(A Three Part Poem—1971)

Part One

From Vietnam to Sydney

Drifts and slitters in the sky—a horizontal sun nearby,
not much grass in this city of Sydney, wild cars (scrapes of steel).
Aimlessly from a battered war I came, out of a swarm of
yellow jacks—that circled me: and here, here now I am standing,
downtown—by strange buildings, smells, brittle old buildings
in sight, not far away, by the bay (to be torn town they say).
A park is by my eighth-level hotel; leaves stripped from their branches;

by nightfall, the moon will be high on the lake,
like a shadowy tail. All week I softly talked, left:

two-hundred miles of walking back and forth, in this city.

Man is the heart of this city, the upshot of rudiments: born
to war, eat, drink and die—; hell with philosophy, there’s enough noise…!

What bothered me from Vietnam to Sydney—(now I know)
someone (they) created a war and nailed it on the cross—to
the only decent carpenter that ever was. I know I must fall—
face doom, but I told myself back then, not in Vietnam.


Part Two

On the Roof Top of the Hotel

I sit here without thought on the roof top of my hotel
(as if—living in a myth) watching the shadows below:
buildings, boats, shadows over the lake, creeping by,
hauntingly in a gray moonlit sky…a few seabirds fly over head,
a few forms of dogs and cats below, they look like dead dots.
It’s a shame I didn’t stay—(soon) to be back to Nam.
Deaths a new shape called –weary!
But I’ll make it through…!
A few birds drift to the rooftop (like spots in the air)
my future defined, I brush the dust from my mind;
rain from the ocean—soaks the air, over the rooftop.
A lady I met comes by, stays the night!
We jump out from under the covers (in the morning)
like seagrass and we both drift away, like seagulls.

(As for me, I will neither snare or grunt or run, I will simple go

back to Vietnam…in the morning.)


Part Three

Back Home
(To Minnesota from Vietnam)

When I got back to Minnesota, it was the first day of my world,
new born I felt: bitter coffee, bitter beer, cold dawn,
it was October…How rare to be born a human a second time;
man and beast were now alike; I even thirst for cold snow.
Now I had obscure layers of meaninglessness.
This new world was simply juggling, popular songs;
human tenderness was dry; bones and flesh just walked on by:
no regrets—I was likened to the sparrows, annulled.

And so it was, Vietnam, a mournful web with tall grass,
we were the snared rabbit’s ear; yet we danced on rooftops,
in the swamps, thinking us wise men.
Whirling from nostrils to ears swatting flies—with drunken eyes.

Note: Perhaps this poem is long overdue, it is my first poem on Sydney, Australia, where I stayed on R&R, during my time in Vietnam, 1971. Now after 40-years, I look back, perhaps I sense I now have absorbed it enough, and can express a portion of it. I did write about Sydney in one of the 35-books I wrote, “Where the Birds don’t sing,” but no poems. So I dedicated this one to the Australian Soldiers that served time in the Military in Vietnam, they were brave; and to my friend Ben Szumskyj, from Australia.

((Vietnam: a war poem) (1971))
Vietnam: Like Ants in the Rain

Confused, whirled in a tangle:
Into a land full of voices—
True men of war I met,
Here we had nothing but thoughts
Memories in common—at best;
And we all spoke out our hearts
And minds—
And without regret we did our best
In the sands of Vietnam.

And we all drank from month on month,
Forgetting, or trying to—the finery of home:
And before the end of the day
We scattered like ants in the rain—
Confused, spinning into
Knots of war.


Note: Every so often I like writing a poem about my times in Vietnam (during the war years, 1971). Being in the Mantaro Valley of Peru, the land of the Great Wanka Warrior must bring it out of me: I’m sure they would understand my reasoning.

No: 1848 5-26-2007

Spanish Version

((Vietnam: Un Poema de Guerra) (1971))
Vietnam: Como Hormigas en la Lluvia

Confuso, envuelto en una maraña:
En una tierra llena de voces—
Verdaderos hombres de guerra conocí.
Aquí no teníamos nada más que pensamientos
Memorias en común—por lo mejor;
Y abrimos nuestros corazones
Y mentes—
Y sin arrepentimiento hicimos todo lo posible
En las arenas de Vietnam.

Y todos bebimos mes a mes,
Olvidando, o tratando de olvidar—las galas de casa:
Y antes del final del día
Nos dispersábamos como hormigas en la lluvia—
Confusos, girando dentro de
Nudos de guerra.


Nota: Cada cierto tiempo me gusta escribir un poema sobre el tiempo que pasé en Vietnam (durante los años de guerra, 1971). Estando en el Valle del Mantaro de Perú, la tierra del Gran Guerrero Wanka debo traerlo fuera de mí: Estoy seguro que ellos entenderían mi razonamiento.

# 1848 26-Mayo-2007

The Long Glimpse

From the arch of the doorway
She’d look my way, into the garage, at me—
as I readied my automobile to go someplace;
She’d be looking-steadfast
I’d open my car door a bit, ask:
“Why you staring? (at me)”
“No reason,” she’d reply, smiling.
Then with a tinge of hesitation
she summon up, and said (at 83):
softly, in an almost whisper “You….”
((as if she had remembered the day I
was born) (almost in a trance.))
And I’d for the life of me—
not know why; I know now though, she was
simply getting a long glimpse before
she died (for she died shortly after).
I guess, she was really saying goodbye,
saying goodbye with a long glimpse
to last between now and then, when we’d
meet again.

No: 1947 8-24-2007

Exiled to Nilodnog ((The Blue Prince--)(Linked to "The Soldiers of Nirut"

Exiled to Nilodnog
((The Blue Prince—) (Linked to “The Soldiers of Nirut))

“Let him be called ‘The Blue Prince,’ for that name his father chose during the great war of Lihterb, ere, war came between the old King Rout, and the South, the two brothers known as Goth and Magoth. During this war, Prince Scro of Nilodnog was visiting King Rout, and the war was not doing well for the north, between the two kingdoms, the south against the north of Lihterb. And King Rout begged the prince to take his boy of thirteen, to his hidden kingdom, the hidden island of Nilodnog, and care for him as he would, for he knew when he lost the war, Roth would kill all royalty, all links to the throne of the northern kingdom.
And the Prince of Nilodnog pitied the dying king, Rout, and he and his soldiers, with the boy escaped out of the Great City, to the Great Sea, and sailed into the mist, and the boy would be raised accordingly. And he dwelled there as the southern kingdom fought and took the north, and King Rout lay down and died. Prince Scro, twenty-five at the time, brought the boy into his island kingdom, and he had a fair face, and broad shoulders, and was skilled at this young age in warfare, and strong, and slightly tall, valiant he was, and proud.
Ere, the young prince pronounced ruin for the king of the north, King Roth.

In the passing of years the life of this new king, without a throne remained a mystery to the kingdom of the north, almost legendary. And many in their hearts waited for his return, for Roth ruled with an iron hand, and cold heart. And the two brothers fought one another with words for the right to rule as one king over both lands, neither one willing to give an inch.


The Gate to Nilodnog

During these days, the Blue Prince lived on this hidden island some 900-miles from the mainland; there was a river that led into the belly of the Great Island from the sea. Should the High King of Lihterb ever find a way through the fog to the island, it would be his pleasure to take that island’s throne. On the other hand, it was the wish of the Blue Prince to dethrone Roth, and take his rightful place on the throne, yet he was now but nineteen years of age.
This mist that covered the island was a product of magic from the wizard Nortel-Iron, over 2000-years old. And a fear was on the island, should he die, then what would happen to the magic spell that produced the mist. It was a mystery kept by the wizard.
During these days, the Blue Prince’s heart boiled for revenge, but under the orders of Prince Scro II (now king), he remained on the island. His father having been ill, had died most recently, and thus, was made king within these days.

Princess Laira (fourteen years old), daughter to King Scro II, and queen Arial of Nilodnog, did not care any longer to be a captive to her own island, and with Roth, her childhood friend, they took a royal vessel, and sailed through the fog to the shores of the northern kingdom of Lihterb. Upon arrival King Goth’s soldiers saw them even before they disembarked; once captured they took them to the Great City, within the fortress of the empire, and the king himself questioned her. Under duress, she pointed to the kingdom, where it would be should be if one was to sail directly. For in the past no boat ever sailed into this island, or if they did, they never found neither their way back out, nor could the greatest of navigators find it.
The king slew her himself, with a danger, and let Roth free to sail his way back home; to frighten the new king if this could be. Then the king set a price on whoever could find this island, their weight in gold.


Under the Star

Long had King Roth sought this island, to no avail, it was one evening some weeks after he had slew the Princess, he walked the shores where he had found her, looking out towards the sunset, and it came into his mind how he would love to conquer this hidden island, then it came to him that she, the princess had pointed to a star, not to her island per se, when she pointed, it was an automatic response, a certain star that led the vessel back to their island home. The question would be, had it been too long, where the star had shifted beyond the island, or was it still partly over it yet. He would take the chance. Thus, he found the star he figured was where she had pointed, and the following day, an hour before twilight, he ventured into the open sea, with 150-vessels, and 150-soldiers to a vessel, some 7500-soldiers, and they followed the sign, the star, through the fog. This was the princess’s mistake he figured.
As they got closer to the island, the tides seemed to rise, slap the ship silly almost, as if the wizard was at work, until morning when the king spotted the island, and the fog remained in back of them for the most part now. The closer they got to the land, it became more clear, and larger, and it began to rise all around them engulf them. And there was an opening, a gate into the belly of the island, a river of sorts, deep it was so the vessels had little trouble navigating though this waterway.


Armada

This was to him the land of the enemy and the river as it was, took the vessels slowly along its pathway, winding it was, like a snake, and no stir of life in the wooded areas along the shoreline.
Several miles into the river, several solders on the first vessel, the king’s yacht, spotted two boys (Gilmore and Acrimonious). They were almost in shock when they seen this armada of vessels. Swords were drawn, and bows were pulled back, and arrows were placed on the strings of the bows, and the boys saw this, and escaped quickly into the woods, found their way back to the palace, and explained to the captain of the guards what mysterious thing they had seen.
When King Scro II, heard of this, he informed the Blue Prince, and readied his fortress for an extended battle.
The Blue Prince was a gifted warrior, and grabbed the ancient shield of the forefathers of Nilodnog, and the thinnest of swords, sharp and with the strongest metal known to the kingdom. A black, gold and silver helmet, and a blue cloak, and with the speed of a deer he ran to the banks of where the two lads had spotted the king of the northern lands of Lihterb and his Armada. And he thought: if this be my doom, I shall nevertheless, get my vengeance once and for all.


Vengeance

The Blue Prince stood along the banks of the river, as King Roth came out of a thin mist, seeping up from the river, it seemed as if his shadow had leaped off the boat all the way to where the Prince was standing, on a seven foot embankment. The vessels all stopped, the king stood erect, the king now but 30-yards from the prince. The king was a great height, compared to the Prince, then the Prince bowed, took the king by surprise. He even told his soldiers to lower their weapons. He was savoring this moment. But in his heart, he could not allow the Prince to live, lest he have rebellion in with his troops, not knowing who were loyal to the legend of this young prince, or to him. The prince glimmered from his crown, to his brow to his feet. The king had left himself wide open, his posture was unguarded. Then the prince opened up his cloak, and pulled his sword, which glowed also, his long golden hair waving in the wind, as he twisted his frame and thrust the sword into the air, like a flash it zoomed through the space between him and the king, the mist of the water somewhat blinding the king, for he saw only a flash, and then the flash turned into thin steel within his heart, he dropped to his knees, and fire set into his eyes, as he fell face down on the deck, and died. All were stunned, as thousands of voices cried out “The King is dead! The King is dead!”
Then the Blue Prince spoke, “Cast your eyes upon me, and your weapons to your side, I am, and always have been your king in waiting… (a silence took over the area as all eyes fell upon him, and all weapons fell to the sides of the soldiers); I am the foundation of the world, I will lead you to victory.” And all bowed to this young prince that was now king, and he spoke, “Rise and fear no more you dead king.” And so it was, the Blue King became the ruler of the Northern kingdom, and he no longer remained exiled on Nilodnog. And as he assembled his kingdom, he told his soldiers, “Look to the South,” and it was that King Magoth of the Southern Kingdom, heard this, and trembled, for the Blue King had both his army and the support of King Scro II, especially knowing now, his brother, like him, had slew his daughter.


Index of Names and Places

Goth (Lord of the North) and Magoth ((Lord of the South) (Brothers and dual kings of Lihterb))
Queen Arial of Nilodnog, wife to King Scro
King (prince) Scro of Nilodnog (husband to Arial, and father to Luria)
Princess Luria (daughter to Arial and King Scro)

Roth, childhood friend to Princess Luria
Gilmore and Acrimonious (two boys)
Nortel-Iron, wizard of Nilodnog

Lihterb (Planet in the Black Galaxy, where Nirut Ruled)
Nilodnog (Hidden Island on the planet of Lihterb)

King Rout (Father of the Blue Prince-or King)
Prince Nirut (son to the Blue King)



The Kings of Nilodnog

Before there was an empire on the mainland of Lihterb, there were tribal kingdoms on the Hidden Island of Nilodnog:

Prince Scro II Present Ruler of Nilodnog
King Scro I, king of Nilodnog, ruled and lived for 515-years
King Sirap II (Grandfather to Prince Scro II) was born 722-years before his son died on his 15th birthday.
King Sirap I, ruled for 400-years, died at 622-years old
King Scro-Sirap I, was born 1025-years before he had a son, ruled one more year after he was born, killed by his 8th wife.
King Scris-Hunter, ruled the kingdom for 175-years, his death came at the age of 2256-years of life. He took it form his youngest brother, Tele-Scrir-hunter (who’s wife had an affair with Scsir…had her kill him at night, and the next night, he had her beheaded for the act.

The kings before this time were tribal kings, ten tribes in all, united under Tele-Scrir-Hunter, who ruled prior to Scrir-Hunter, for 1500-years. His father ruled one of the ten tribes, and was killed by Tele-Scrir-Hunter in a boar hunt; the ten tribes go back ten-thousand years.


8-21-2007

"No Road Back Home"

Europe (Part Two, of Three Parts)

"No Road Back Home"

Chapter One
Frankfurt


I traveled all night, had a passport, and my military ID card I had reached Germany without trouble. I had taken the recommendations of the Captain, AWOL. I had seen enough protests in America, and the usual reports in the newspapers of those objectors to the War in Vietnam going to Canada, but I went to Europe. Of course I always knew protesters preceded wars. I saw trains full of American soldiers, you’d think the war was in Europe not Vietnam. A few of the young soldieries like I was, spoke, they were convinced that Europe was under threat, and they were needed here, and were worried they’d be hauled out of Europe to go to Vietnam, like many of their buddies. I was twenty two years old, I told them I served my time in the states and I was just traveling around Europe. I was in Frankfurt and took a room at a small hotel. It was spring, March of 1970, the tourist season was picking up I noticed. I was traveling light, a knapsack was all, it was filled with civilian cloths, and a few Army things I kept. I had stop in Minnesota to talk to my mother and brother and relax for that last month of my real life, I mean, I be on the run thereafter, but I didn’t tell her I was abandoning the army, just like Mark Twain did. I thought it would be the best thing to leave it alone.
The city was full of hikers, and bikers, and soldiers. I paid my room rent for a month in advance.
I walked the streets the next day to get the feel of the city, and kind of hid from the police and Officers when they came by. Seeing a lone young man as I was, was suspicious, or at least so I felt. I spent some time looking over the bridges into the River, looking at the dim shapes of the fishes. I thought, look here, you got the whole river to yourself, and all you got to watch out for is a hook, but he like me I suppose had limits, he had but one river and perhaps some tributaries, I had all of Europe to run around in, both running from the hook. Then I walked farther down the river, there really was no harmony this first day, this spring afternoon.
I went back to my hotel room, slept a few hours. I had but a once of confidence, but it would have to do.

I heard a knock at my door, I opened it, it as the US Military Police (I would find out later my landlady was in fear I was, just what I was, AWOL).
“What are you doing here?” asked the two tall white Military Police.
I protested that I was an innocent American Tourist, but that didn’t help much, they insisted I go with them to the military station, and if they were wrong, they’d give me their apologies.
“Tell them at your headquarters, I’m a free citizen of the US…” and was looking about wondering how to escape. But there was really no way, I’d have to talk my way out at their headquarters I told myself, and they each stepped to a side of me and walked me down the two flight of stairs. They seemed to be just his right distance alongside of me; one was a foot behind me. Had I run, I could not have made ten feet I believe, and would have given myself away.
At the Military Headquarters, one of the two soldiers opened up a door to a little room, “Go side there,” he told me, “The Latinate will see you in a minute.” There I waited to be questioned for about fifteen minutes. And a fat officer came in, but it was a captain. And he said, “I’m Latinate Goodman, how are you?”
“Fine Latinate,” said in return, knowing he was a captain, and not referring to him as an officer.
“You really have nothing to worry about, we get a lot of AWOL folks about, you know, just walking aimless trying to find a way back home, but of course this is not your case, right.”
“I’m not worried,” I said, taking off my jacket. “So start your questioning, I’m busy, I just got in yesterday and want to get a railroad pass, and see a few things.”
A tall military guard came in, said, “Captain, we got two more out here waiting.” Then the captain looked at me, with a smile, “It never stops.” I looked around the room as if I had never seen a military room before, which actually I had not, in Europe. The small window was barred, and the door was heavy and solid, locked from the other side, thus the Captain had to knock to get out. I could hear movement on the other side of the door.
I sat and waited for his next question. It was dreary, and I gave him that look, realizing, most civilians would take it that way, whereas a soldier has to smile and endure. It was getting close to lunch, and I cold smell coffee.
“Bring me a cup and my lunch,” ordered the captain, and the door opened, and he and I looked at the two soldiers waiting for him. I pretended to be hungry also. He was easier going than the Military Police. Finally I said, “Do you want my passport or what do you want?” My next statement was going to be a threat I could not fulfill, I was going to say, I want to talk to an official from the Embassy, but I feared it would endanger my position now. And said nothing, and cooperated.
“What were you doing when the police picked you up?” he asked.
“I was in my hotel room sleeping!” I said
“What…!” he said aloud, the door open, and the guard bringing in his coffee.
“Maybe they got you confused, hotel room.”
“I was enjoying the view of the Rhine before that,” I said smiling, “As I told them and you, I’m a tourist, not a smuggler or whatever.”
I saw the two soldiers had duffle bags, no wonder they got caught I told myself. A knapsack or shoulder bag looked more like a young mans travel bag.
“I think my landlady got suspicious and rushed out to find the Military Police, and the excitement started,” I added.
“The landlady,” said the captain,” I held my breath, I stated my name although he had read it in on the introductory form he held in front of him, no real report yet “Christopher Hunger I’m from Minnesota, I have never been in trouble, no police recorded, and if you are not going to charge me with an offense, I am hungry.”
The guard at the door grunted and looked up, as if he knew something but wasn’t sure.
“Yes, yes…” I he said, now looking at my passport, “that is a fact. I stretched out my hand to take back the passport, as if it was my property, and he handed it back.”
“So that’s it, Mr. Hunter, you’re free to go, sorry about the inconvenience.” Said the Captain with a smile, I raised the palms of my two hands, as if being satisfied, and of course, got up off my chair and left that little room as fast as I could without raising
a hair.
“Have a good lunch,” said the Captain as I was walking to the front doors, I never turned about. I quickly went back to the hotel, it was safe there now for a month I felt, and then I’d be on my way, but only a month, I needed to get out of this military infested city. I had five hundred dollars on me, and $25, 800 dollars in the back, my mother had saved for me for college, if need be I could tap into that.





Chapter Two
Paris




On Notre Dam Cathedral




I noticed the month I walked around Frankfurt, so may unhappy faces, perhaps it was because I was unhappy, guarded, looking over my shoulder. People, who are unhappy, can usually count the others that are gloomy like them. I went to Paris and found a rooming house there, a small hotel down by the banks of the Seine. I was on the second floor, and the steps winded upward like spiral stairway.
From my window you could see Notre-Dame and a few bridges that crossed the Seine. I had the sense things would be different here, it was April, 1970, and there was a coolness in the air. The phony Vietnam War was still active, and I heard they were scaling down, from 500,000 troops to 200,000 and downward from there.
I didn’t feel I existed in this city, I just was, and so I seemed to walk around the city, numb, but alive. I went daily to “Shakespeare and Co,” a bookstore where Hemingway, Joyce, and the rest of the 1920s writers hung out, and I bought some cheap books, and read upstairs in what I called their loft, fell to sleep now and then on the coach they had, and lived on books, and sandwiches, and in a cheap hotel room.
When people asked me, Americans that often came to the bookstore, asked what I did, I answered truthfully, I didn’t work, and that I had in year prior in a range of trades. I didn’t seem to sense the French cared one way or the other who I was as long as I had an up-to-date passport, and money. But this second life I was living was getting boring, I wanted to work, do something, yes I thing that is the most correct for the time, I was bored, felt discarded in a world famous city, with no regrets, but having no work to do; legally I was a tourist I suppose, so it wasn’t anyone’s fault I feared on trying to get a work permit, lest they find whom I was, but again I doubt they’d had cared, they didn’t like the Vietnam war anymore than I, but I didn’t know of what connections they had with the US Military, or what kind of information they handed over to the FBI, so I left it alone.
I drank expensive coffee at the Café de Flora; I suppose that was because Hemingway ate and drank there, it felt homelike to me. I had a few ham and cheese sandwiches there, when I felt rich, because they were not cheep, but most of the time I just ate at a local café down by Notre Dame, where I could get a meal for a buck.
I had a lot of time to do nothing, my world was empty, and I needed not be so guarded, and that had filled my time before, I mean, I felt my world was a tinge more packed, now it was that I felt ahead of time, looking for things to do. I suppose I looked at a few of the friends I met at the bookstore with desperate appeal, eyes that said, help, but they didn’t believe I really needed it so they didn’t bring it up.
I was tired most of the time in Paris, or bored, or depressed I suppose. I called it, content without interest, a time of fantasies about nothing. I talked to myself a lot. I learned Paris was not the city to be alone in.

I was sleeping in my room, and the door opened, I pretended not to notice I was tired, it was my third month in Paris (the end of July, 1970), and I was naked on my bed, it was hot. They were talking in French, I noticed as they talked to one another, all maids, they were fascinated, wither with my white skin, or me being an American or whatever, I was drowsy, one was cute the other were ok, all with white garments on. I think they were thinking was mad to lay naked, a logical madness I suppose, but they were determined to look, stare for the longest time, and I had too much boredom to stop them, nor did I care to analyze it. Then the door shut. But I had gotten a good glimpse of one.
I got up, walked down the hallway, it was perhaps an hour since they three had gone into my room, they were at the end of the hallway by the steps, I walked by them, smiled a the cute one, I think there is an animal that lives in all of us, I wanted to digest her right there, but I moved on. It consumes you with you think someone is interested in you, and perhaps they are not, just in the moment of disbelief of an event. I was thinking nonsense, I told myself, I hated such conversations with my second self, but I didn’t like drugs, but I got to liking beer and wine while on my run in Europe. And I was not so depressed I was going to take my life.
A thought passed through my mind as I walked down those stairs, I would leave tomorrow morning, go someplace, figure it out in the evening. Yes, just disappear. When I got back to my room, Carla was cleaning it, the girl I had seen, the cute one. She looked more Italian, or Spanish than, French, she spoke a variation of English and Spanish and French. I can’t write it, it is too difficult, but she was attracted to me, and it was hard not to be attracted to her. Tomorrow Morning, I told myself, or maybe a few days more.
“You take me out to a nightclub, and we dance,” she said.
“Good gosh,” I said, “why not,” I said breathlessly. She could save my boring life. I smiled a bit sadly, and I sat on my bed, and she also, I couldn’t think of a thing to say, but she was making me human again. As I looked at her, her age was about right, my age or perhaps two or three years older.
“I am twenty-six,” she said.
“I’ll be twenty three, in October,” I responded.
“Have you got somebody you like back home?” she asked.
“Yes,” I replied, “my mother” and she laughed.
“Me too,” she said.
For a moment there, we didn’t seem to be so strange to each other, an interest was being painted in our minds, and then a cold something run through me, like magic, I grabbed her and kissed her. And we lay on the bed, and she took off her close, almost all the way, and she closed her self up, said, “I can’t.” I was in such turmoil, emotionally I didn’t know what to say, but laid back. And we sat up, and all of a sudden I thought, I didn’t have a visa. I mean it wasn’t hard to get, but I didn’t have one for France, and no one checked me on the train, and I was on leave when I got one for Germany, and here I was, how was I going to leave, or perhaps leave, and hope I didn’t get check, or if I did, just ask for one. Funny how things like that seep into your mind when you get rejected, and I guess she was speaking to me, but I didn’t hear her.
The next day, she turned up in my room, and cleaned it, not a word said. This time I left it is, although I knew she came in person to see me. And there I stood with a smile, in my hotel room. Carla’s friends walked by as if to see what was going to take palace, they were both more broad-shouldered than she. One was perhaps two hundred pounds, the other, quite small and thin, not sure if they were the same girls I had seen with Carla before or not.
“Stay right here,” I told Carla, and walked outside of my room, to show them nothing was happening, and they walked back towards the spiral stairway. Slowly Carla rose from making my bed, turned around and we fond our bodies to be a food from each other, and we kissed. She started to push away, but decided for what it was worth, not to. She said calmly, in her broken English, “I wish you’d stay in Paris!”
“No,” I said, adding, “Unfortunately I can’t. But never mind, I will be leaving soon.” And I let go of her, my hands were around her thin waist. I knew if I stayed too long in one place, they’d find me, and put me in prison. Carla was taken back a moment, not sure what her next move would be. We both seemed to be in a deep concentration. I felt like a worm, but contemptuously, I felt I had to live with it.



Chapter Three
Luxembourg


I said goodbye to Carla, I didn’t want to but I did, breathlessly. I didn’t go to the French consulate, or any consulate, I was going to Luxembourg, Luxembourg, with Carla’s girlfriend, a German Jew, Sandy Schmaltz, who was going there for her work, a business trip for a day or so, thirty-six hours I guess. I said I’d pay half the gas and so we made a deal. Carla said she’d wait for me to return, but you know how that goes, it all consumes itself hen the next attraction passes you by.
We passed though the border check at Belgium without showing my papers, I think Sandy saved me, by having her ready, and I being an American with a youthful diplomatic look, the guard had better things to do than to hold me accountable.
In the long term of things I knew there could be no happy ending, the unforeseen future was at best a theatrical twist, with a hopeless ending.
At the boarder of Luxembourg, the policeman at the gate had much to talk about with the girls in the car inform of us, gave us a stare, and waved us though.
“I have to go to Zurich tomorrow, if you want to keep me company, pay half the gas, meet me at the Guest house, the one I’ll drop you off at, around 11:00 AM.”
Fate had dropped me a morsel, or so I felt.
She had left, and I was talking with the landlady and her husband of the Guesthouse. We had traveled the whole night, and I was hungry, so I sat outside by a little wooden table, and she brought me coffee, bread, jam, orange juice, and poached eggs, they were not hard enough for me, but I ate them, I was hungry.
I figured I’d meet Sandy tomorrow; we’d cross the boarder to Germany and head on to Zurich. I was not inspired to stay any longer than I had to in Luxembourg, it didn’t seem all that accommodating for me.
“Not much baggage,” replied the landlady after breakfast.
“Just one bag,” I said.
I paid her the full days rent and went walking about the city. I must had climbed 100-steps up to this cemetery of sorts, and checked out the old dates on the tombstones, 1713, was the oldest, then I counted hem as I walked back down, there were 93—!

A car pulled up, an American girl poked her head out, “Come with us,” she said, we’re up for fun.”
“What?” I asked.
“Where you staying,” she asked.
“At a small guesthouse, not sure what the name is, why?” then I walked up to the car, a young American was at the wheel, and another girl in the back seat beside her, “Come on soldier, come over to our pad and booze it up, we got lots of chicks there, and it will not cost you anymore than a hotel.” And or the novelty of it I jumped into the back seat with the girls.
On the way to their apartment, she picked up another girlfriend, and she sat on my lap, no pants on, and a dress, I thought: now what, but learned it was not uncommon.
When we got to the house they were renting out, she told me her name was Karin, and she’d be my girlfriend if I lived there, but Peter was her until he left. She aid I’d not have any trouble finding a mate until then. And there was pot and other substances about. But it I felt I just didn’t fit into this scene. I stayed about fifteen minutes, walked about aimlessly, and noticed several guys, all American soldiers on the run, about to be sent to Vietnam.
“Don’t worry, we’ll find you someone in-between my time with Peter.” Karin assured me. But I continued to the door, all my fellow Americans were out of it, either drunk, or high.
A large fellow stood by the door, “If you’re not coming back, I suggest you forget this address.” He said to me in a threatening way. As if I would chance it. I smiled, said, “I don’t even know where I’m at,” and it was true.
It started to rain as I caught a taxi back to my hotel; I had the hotel’s name written down on a piece of paper. At the hotel, I bought a bottle of Mosel wine and drank myself to sleep.



Chapter Four
Switzerland


“How was your day?” asked Sandy.
I was waiting outside the guesthouse, having a cup of coffee; it was 11:00 AM. She had parked her 1967-Red VW, and walked up to greet me.
“I ended up at some club house, strangers all high on dope, didn’t like the scene, and left early, and drank myself to sleep.
“Sound more exciting than my day, just business at the local bank here, stocks, they are going down, the dollar is going down, lost $50,000-dollars, everyone’s buying marks again.”
“Some bad luck haw?” I said.
“Just the name of the game I suppose.”
“Thanks for keeping my seat,” I said to Sandy, looking at her profile as we drove off. She was very pretty, light brown hair, hazel blue eyes, a think shape, not much in the breast area, but a nice smile. She was twenty-seven years old, I, going on twenty-three.
As we drove off, I really didn’t know what too do, I peered out the window a lot, I couldn’t insistent on much either. By mid afternoon we were back on German soil, and I haply showed my German visa at the checkpoint, I think Sandy felt a bit more comfortable at that.
We stopped at the bratwurst stand, and I got out of the car, ate two down quickly.
“You Americans eat fast,” said Sandy.


My thoughts now were on crossing the Swiss boarder. As I looked out the window I saw the cars zooming by, flying by. I have to admit, the speed of the cars and the fresh air hitting my face gave me a relief, I untied my shoes, it would be a long ride.
I was annoyed with myself, thinking I should have stayed with Carla in Paris. I wanted to go back, but I didn’t, it wasn’t the money, perhaps I felt safer on the run, some kind of hypocritical happiness.
“Sandy,” I interrupted her driving concentration, moved over toward her. She answered, “What is it?”
“In Switzerland why not share a room together?
There was kind of a desperate tone to my voice; then a moment of impatience. I next, said to myself: here is now a frightened woman in a car with me, or so I thought.
“Yes, that will do:” my eye brows hit my forehead.
We both sat quiet for a few minutes. I seemed to be sweating.
“Are we in Switzerland?” I asked dumfounded, for lack of a better conversation.
Actually I could now see far ahead the stationmaster waving a flag. My companion dug into her purse for her Id. Why I did what I did I didn’t know, but I pulled out my green military card, knowing it would be better than being caught without a visa.
“You’re a soldier,” said Sandy.
“I was,” I replied.
“Well, now we are in Switzerland,” confirmed Sandy.
“Of course,” I said.
“Was a soldier,” she asked.
“I finally got out after two years,” I told her.
“Oh,” she said, a bit puzzled, perhaps because I was not providing any complicated answer, if anything oversimplifying.
“Now Sandy, I can do as I please, when I please.”
A small witness filled the middle of her closed lips, she stared at me, with unruffled calm, and at the stop sigh, and she leaned over and kissed me, lightly on my lips.
“You’re a brave man,” she said.
I was not of the same opinion.
“Americans seem always to be making war, why?”
“Lost of money in Armaments,” I said kidding.
“I quite agree with that, first time I ever heard anyone say it thought.

Switzerland was a natural country, I thought it might be safe here for a while. Perhaps the landlady wouldn’t get into my business, or so I hopped.
I took my bag and Sand her suite case, and we went into a hotel downtown Zurich. It was mid afternoon.
Downstairs, in the lobby was a heath, and six folks were sitting around a fire, lightly lit, with wine and beer, and cheese and crackers. They asked us to join them, and we did, and w sang and drank until about 10:00 PM, and went to our room to bed.
She wore a gold chain around her naked waist, and one around her ankle, and we lay in bed and made love, and we fell to sleep.
We stayed in Zurich for a week and made love for a week straight. Went to a few clubs, walked down along the river, and I bought her a music box. And we parted.



Chapter Five
Lisbon


There was a group of Japanese tourist at the small hotel I was at. The day Sandy left, they came. And after a week of getting to know them, Kiekie, asked were I was heading to, she was much older than I, perhaps in her mid thirties. A nurse she said. Divorced, It old her I was headed for Lisbon.
“Can I come with?” she asked.
“Yes,” I said without hesitation, not sure why, but it seemed I did not want to argue about it; Carla had sent me a letter also wanting me to return to Paris or perhaps meet her at another location, city.
Along with a bottle of wine, my knapsack, and Kiekie, I grabbed a couple of sandwiches from the cook at the hotel, put them in a sack, inside my knapsack, and bought a ticket, and my companion bought hers.
“You’ve ever been to Lisbon?” she asked as we sat looking out the window.
“No,” I said.
“I hear it is one of the most beautiful cities in the world?”
“I couldn’t say, “ I responded.
“Then why have you picked out the city in the first place to see.” She asked.
“A quest,” I said, “I want to see as much of Europe as I can.”
“Oh yes, I do agree,” she said in a high squeaky voice, “You Americans are like that, us Japanese, are becoming like you.”
I laughed, and said, “Let’s not worry about why’s.” She nodded ok.
Once in Lisbon, after getting a hotel room, I took her to bed, not sure why I did it so quickly, but we both wanted to. The following morning we went up to see the castle on the hill, St. George. And to the Iron tower, a café was on top of it. Off and on during the week we remained there, we went to bed like old married couples. What for, other than sex, I don’t rightly know, nothing special, nothing of any importance, but lots of company, the kind we don’t talk about.
On the 8th day, I said to her, “It is good you came with me,” I kind of whispered it, adding, “I have someone in Paris, I think I may be going back to see her.”
I felt I had to say that, I really could not have taken it any longer. Love me, kiss me, andlet’s have sex. But it was not love, it was fun and lust. Love was in Paris, or so I felt. She did leave on the next plane out, and I did appreciate her not asking any questions that long week.



End Chapter
Babenhausen Germany


Carla met me in Babenhausen, Germany, it was safer for me to be in Germany without a visa from another country, I just had to pick out a small town than Frankfurt, and Carla said, Sandy had relatives in Babenhausen and we could meet there. We met and stayed at Gunter Gunderson’s house, a spare apartment he had, and round the corner was an old tower, 1714 AD, it was built.
We stayed here for a few weeks, went down to a local bar where they had music, and. We’d dance there, the twist, and lindy, and a few other dances. Why I stayed along from her so long was beyond me, we clicked, that was love I suppose, what else it could be.
We sat down at a table, ordered a beer and sandwich, and she asked, “So you and Sandy went to Zurich together?”
I kind of gave a feeble smile. “Why don’t we just go?”
“Where?” she asked.
“This place is dead now, no more dancing…!” As I looked about, I saw many young men like me, all playing soldier, ready for war. I paid the waiter then we stepped out into the glorious night, stars over Germany were heavy this evening. We embraced, I never answered her question, and she never asked again. The night was clear, so many stars. We walked back to the apartment, and a little further up, toward the old tower, I liked it, it was dark. We stood a while in silence by the tower, across from it, a few lights from up the street. I wasn’t going to answer any such questions for her. I know she had sent me letters in Lisbon, and Switzerland but to me it was just adventures. This was the time of my life, I seemed to have one after another adventures hurled at me, and no need to destroy the normal life romances and dreams of a tormented soldier.
Zurich looked back on me, it filled my mind, Sandy was nice, and we had a good time in Luxemburg also, not much time, but a good conversation; Zurich was different, we were both lonely. Sandy gave me something I thought I had lost, not sure exactly what it was, perhaps my sense of humor, a diluted death, for before that I felt I was dropping off the face of he earth. Carla was my stimulates, my love, I liked the combination, it gave me a chemical charge, one person cannot do everything for you. I kind of wanted to buy back my life, go back into the Army, go to Vietnam, and prove myself. I wasn’t a cowered, I don’t think so, but Vietnam just seemed to me to be acid, and why be forced feed to drink it; but was I a coward? It was harder to run and hide than be disappointed in ones self.
Babenhausen was a sparkling little city at night. Carla seemed almost moonstruck, she laid her back against me, the tower across from us, her heart alive, beating fast, I looked down the street, it looked like a black hollow, a long stone wall, with foliage on top of it.
“Who are we?” I asked Carla. “I mean, if I was just a memory to you, how would you want it to be? Can it be, we are never completely the other persons? Will you ever be completely mine? Under our skulls we are a festival of things.”
“You sound like a poet,” said Carla. I suppose I felt like one.
“This is the placed Carla, we shall always remember, the place, the tower, the high-ceiling of our apartment, Paris, this is it, there will be no more to be had, our live will be the highest here. Yes I had a good time with Sandy in Switzerland, we were not afraid of life, but I always seemed to paralyze myself with I thought of you. I still do. You shock life into me.” Somehow she nodded that she understood, but I doubt she did. She smiled, and I knew she would, as long as there was no danger lingers too close.
As we made love that evening, I thought, here was a woman I barely know, met in Paris, received some letters from, uneventful past for the most part, but here we were lost in life’s power, hemmed in to each other, evaporated into each others soul, like poison.

Military Compound

A week later, the impossible happened, I went to the Babenhausen Military Compound, turned myself in, I had been AWOL for five months. What mattered to me was to prove I was not a coward. To give Carla a good memory of me, should I not make it back from a War, because I knew I was going. Yes, oh yes, that was my reason, and to me that was enough. During the following week, the military was kind I suppose you could say.
I explained it all to Carla, and she said she’d wait for me, I’d have to serve my time, I had something like 16-months to go. The summer was almost over, and I felt a little more carefree, and thoroughly unreal for I was no longer hiding, or running. I wanted to Marry Carla, but I couldn’t, not yet, not until I got through this strange situation. But she strengthen me, our feelings for each other were strong. The new surroundings intensely became real. And then I was sent to Fort Lewis, Washington state, for jungle training for Vietnam.
And during all this, Carla hovered over my mind, and she never finished in the mist, in my dreams.
After I finished my training I ended up a second time at the hospital. I couldn’t run like the other soldiers, I had dropped a bomb on it during Advance Training, after boot camp, it broke three of my toes, and I shifted some of my weight (fourteen pounds of it) from my right wounded leg to my left, thus they were in the process of giving me a deferment from war, I would be sent to another location. I didn’t like this at all, thus, when the day came to go to Vietnam, I was suppose to have been in the hospital, but I took my old orders and jumped on the plane. When I got to Vietnam, the in processing clerk laughed, said “…you’re suppose to be in the hospital in Washington, why you here!”
My eyes darted form one medic to the next, we all laughed and one of the said in a common interest, “I guess you’re here now…!” and stamped my in processing card, valid, and there I was. It was pure enthusiasm to be in a war zone, I was even delighted, but a month later I received a letter from Carla. It was hard to read the second time, and even harder the third. Two such congenial people, is it unusual to find this or not. I was now twenty-three years old.
It was a Dear John Letter, and it read something like this: I can’t write you anymore, I do not wish to have to worry about if you are alive or dead, or will return back with something missing. It is better to call it off now.
Perhaps she was right, I was healthy, and my muscles were hard, my nerves ok, but who knows, I told myself I would not write back, and I didn’t.


Epitaph

Christopher Hunter died in Vietnam, in 1971. The shadowy arm of fate caught him, reached across the jungles and set him free. No visa needed. I’m sure Carla never forgot him, I don’t know. I guess he is still laying there someplace. I went to Cambodia to find his remains, hearing he may have been in that area, I did find his lighter, at what is known as the Russian Market, in Pham Pen, funny how things work out. I still have his lighter. Who am I? I’m just an old friend that knew him.
He did tell me thought, “Carla never talked me into going back into the Army, I wouldn’t have gone had she done that. But I am satisfied.”
“Yes,” I said, “you seem to be.” He was the kind of person I would have liked to have travel with, we did sit up many a nights and talk, and he went on all those so called special missions, those I never did. We ate together, we talked and drank together, but he died alone. I don’t know of any better to say.

The Poet’s Vision (And the Grace)

I somehow remember the year was cool—
Autumn leaves were fallen down, leaving the trees.
Above our Midwestern sky the birds were leaving,
And rosebuds were starting to grow iciness.

In all that season the neighborhood paths were damp;
As if I was emerging from a sleeping vision,
Knowing I was growing, I saw beyond the sunset
And now somehow, I’ve met my vision quest.

Long gone those days that held me breathless
dreaming—
I have become the person I wished to be
My vanished dreams became reality;
The stream I followed encased me….

And so it was, the autumn of that year—
And one called youth because of his dreams were
tender,
Softly he prayed, most earnest and coy,
And one called Almighty, listened, out of grace gave.

Note: Life, real life, demands patience, trials, endurance. Often we try to side skip these necessary elements to gain fortune and fame, but we less often count the cost in doing so. Wisdom is not pure knowledge, it is following through the normal steps, gaining the experience, and perhaps we can say it is like night a day. By one trying to sidestep these elements, it is simply delaying the heart-aches, loneliness and disclosures God wants us to experience. And so this is my poem, that started when I was ten-years old running through the wild and barren neighborhoods, and beyond, simply trying to be me, and thereafter sitting by my widow in the bedroom attic writing poetry at 12-years old, wondering what stream I would follow in life. A young man once wrote me, asked me what he should or could do to be a writer, and what to write about. I simply said go live, gain experience, and if the doors are closed, try to open some, be patient. Sometimes we say it is impossible, and we remain frozen. Go do it, stop talking about it, and get off your duff. He never did write back. I assume he did what I said, or he did not, and has been mournful ever since.

# 1933 8-10-2007

Sestina: For the Valley of Mantaro of Peru

(Sestina):
For the Valley of Mantaro


The Valley’s disclosure of blossoming has come
from ancient mountains gorgeous with Spring.
Ringing, my body’s a-dancing today, and in my mind
kind winds unfold. A desire for the remote far winds….
Fading I see rainbow’s pedestal, a burning sapphire,
stones like opals, cover the mountains’ sunsets.

Is this home of Thine the last? If so it is the best!
As if an only daughter, she is nowise fair.
‘Tis but a path, the last; hast thou, I take her road.



Here in the valley, comes sprouts and dust from kings
kings: breathless wonderment, immemorial beauty—;
between the sunsets and the solitudes, an eternal splendor!
Beauty’s never long asleep—it is thy guarded friend!
Strange and dreamy are the stars thou followest.

Is this home of Thine the last? If so it is the best!
As if an only daughter, she is nowise fair.
‘Tis but a path, the last; hast thou, I take her road.



I saw the condor: in the valley, but a few nights past,
fast she flew, spilt into music, her winds of darkness;
dreaming things I have not known, I stood alone,
the moon hath set to mutiny, in these old white bones,
so their silence passed my world, tenderly, ye I stood
strange oh tender enchanted thoughts—enchanted me!

Is this home of Thine the last? If so it is the best!
As if an only daughter, she is nowise fair.
‘Tis but a path, the last; hast thou, I take her road.



Speak, for I wish to hear thy silver voice, moonlit.
Moonlight clear, mystical, within my farthest dream,
yet, in Thine eyes I see far tears! And I hear thee say:
‘I am spirit, ye but flesh, listen thou, what sayest ye,
thou to me, what have you done to my mountains
and my stream, it is now the shameful flow’r.’

Is this home of Thine the last? If so it is the best!
But I could not speak to the silver voice, moon lit,
her marvel, phenomenon, in her a farthest dream.



She comes, no longer silent, yet fragrance to thy heart,
what wouldst thou have me say? ‘All is fine from thy throne!’
Ah no! Ah no! I say to thee, your eyes are part of Paradise!
Ah yes! O goddess, alter-flame of the world, do not despair
blinding sight has caused thy heart to ache and rain,
yet your stars return to thy, your beauty, scarce it be.

Is this home of Thine the last? If so it is the best!
My heart is lost into the central valley of her delight,
O thou relentless satiety, pass the ramparts of my soul.



And she spoke to me again, with her silver moonlit voice,
‘Come forth with me, O prince!’ she said, ‘for far adventures wait.
Thy heart is warmer than the light, drowned in contentment,
go, and do not abandon me, thy footsteps I will see,
tell Christ you cannot leave, cling on to my arms, please!’
She is something beyond, far beyond, these human hours.

Here in the valley, comes sprouts and dust from kings
yet, in Thine eyes I see far tears! And I hear thee say:
‘…tell Christ you cannot leave, cling on to my arms, please!’



Note: in a Sestina, one often can feel (if done correctly) the creation of a rolling musical effect, almost like rolling down a hill, or mountain into a valley, which this was the effect I chose to produce in this poem. No: 1931 8-8-2007.

Mary Sophia of El Tambo (Peru; in English and Spanish(

Mary Sophia of El Tambo (Goddaughter—in El Tambo, Huancayo Peru)

The Clouds do not grow heavy, nor gray today (no rain)
the day is almost over though—I do not want to lose it
so I told my wife: ‘I need to get to the platform,’
thus, here I am, sitting on the platform again,
getting the leftovers from the sun, I’m like an elephant
I absorb as much sun as they do water I do believe!
So much gets lost when one sleeps, but so pleasing is it;
so much gets lost when one is playing, thus, I play very little now.
I keep saying ‘Wake up…” and I am the only one in bed.
Friend, I can’t do much about this world, so I’ve learned—
yet, I do seem to hold on, as I keep spinning out of it.
But what I was going to say is this: I belong to this old person
and he believes to let events come as they may…
I cannot stop from dancing, writing, singing, reading,
and riding on heavy seas, something’s inside me—
breathing, in the tiniest house of time…pushing!

She’ll remember somehow, thirty-years from now,
when she is forty and her mother sixty—and me,
me, I’ll be dead or at ninety (and that will never be).
She’ll remember that at ten, I sat on this platform
by her house, and wrote and read, the sun basting over my head,
and I simply wrote and read, wrote and read…(almost daily)
as the dog slept, drank and paced the yard;
she’ll recall all those books on my lap…
and she’ll remember herself saying, “Hello Godfather…
how are you today?” a rhetorical question at best:
you see, it is always the little, simple things we remember;
“I’m fine,” is what I’ll say, and so her subconscious
will recall me saying, and that I put aside my cup of coffee,
closed the book (on my lap) a moment—, looked her way,
smiled, as well as giving her a kiss on the cheek—
and I went back reading, and she went into her house.

You see, I know something, little perhaps it be, and it is this:
the company we keep, sprouts inside of us, it is hidden
like a seed, if we look around inside as time goes by for it,
nothing fades, it is just hidden, it will spout out…
a million suns that come in letters, spelling memories,
we will see whole rivers of light; oh, yes, it is now miles away,
but it will be, as sure as the sun will rise, it will be.
This poem is not about forgetting, dying, or loss, it is
about, remembering, and things we built—built long ago,
left behind, for those who wish to remember.
Perhaps it is the wheel of delighted memories, and
the spinning seat of life.


# 1930 8-6-2007 Written on the Platform in Huancayo, Peru (4:30PM); dedicated to Mary Sophia Peñaloza Acevedo





Spanish Version


María Sofía de El Tambo
(Mi ahijada—en El Tambo, Huancayo Perú)


Las nubes no se incrementaron, ni se pusieron grises hoy día (no hay lluvia)
el día casi se esta terminando—No quiero perder este
por eso le dije a mi esposa: “necesito ir a la plataforma”,
así, aquí estoy, sentado en la plataforma de nuevo,
obteniendo los restos del sol, soy como un elefante
¡absorbo tanto sol como ellos agua creo!
Tanto se pierde cuando uno duerme, pero tan placentero este es;
Tanto se pierde cuando uno juega, así, juego muy poco ahora.
Ando diciendo “Levántate…” y yo soy el único en la cama.
Amigo, no puedo hacer mucho por este mundo, eso he aprendido—
aunque, parece que todavía espero, mientras continúo girando fuera de este.
Pero lo que quería decir es esto: pertenezco a esta persona anciana
y él cree en dejar venir los acontecimientos como ellos puedan…
No puedo impedir de bailar y escribir, cantar, leer,
y cabalgar en mares pesados, algo dentro de mi—
¡respirando, en la diminuta casa del tiempo…está empujando!.

Ella recordará de alguna manera, de acá a treinta años,
cuando ella tenga cuarenta y su madre sesenta—y yo,
yo, estaré muerto o tendré noventa (y eso nunca será).
Ella recordará que a los diez, me sentaba en la plataforma
por su casa, y escribía y leía, el sol calentando mi cabeza,
y yo simplemente escribía y leía, escribía y leía…(casi diariamente)
mientras el perro dormía, bebía y se paseaba por el patio;
ella recordará todos esos libros sobre mis rodillas…
y ella se recordará a si misma diciendo, “Hola padrino…”
¿cómo estás hoy?” una pregunta retórica a lo mejor;
tú ves, son siempre las cosas pequeñas, simples que recordamos;
“Estoy bien” es lo que diré, y por eso su subconsciente
me recordará diciéndolo, y que puse de lado mi taza de café,
cerré el libro (en mis rodillas) por un momento—, miré hacia ella,
sonreí, también dándole a ella un beso en la mejilla—
y que yo volvía a leer, y que ella iría dentro de su casa.

Tú ves, yo sé algo, pequeño talvez este sea, y este es:
la compañía que mantenemos, brota dentro de nosotros, está escondido
como una semilla, si miramos dentro mientras el tiempo pasa por este,
nada se desvanece, sólo está oculto, esté brotará…
un millón de soles que vienen en letras, memorias deletreadas,
veremos ríos enteros de luz; oh, sí, ahora está millas lejos,
pero este será, tan seguro como el sol que saldrá, este será. dedicated to Mary Sophia Peñaloza Acevedo

dedicated to Mary Sophia Peñaloza Acevedo



Este poema no es sobre olvidarse, morirse, o perder, este es
sobre, recuerdos y cosas que construimos—construimos tiempo atrás,
olvidados, por aquellos que desean recordar.
Talvez es la rueda de memorias gozosas, y
el asiento giratorio de la vida.


# 1930 6-Agosto-2007 Escrito en la plataforma en Huancayo, Perú (4:30PM) dedicado a María Sofía Peñaloza Acevedo

End Notes to the "Soldiers of Nirut," series

Conclusion:

End Notes to the “Soldiers of Nirut,” Series

So ends the tales of Nirut or its series that started with, “The Soldiers of Nirut and ends with, “The Runaway Comet,” and the last of the Lihmoirions and the stories of the Black Galaxy, which includes Marduk the evil one and his dealings with the whole lot. Hell’s lot also, and the few characters from Atlantis, Ais being one. In this series many characters from other stories came into the picture. Unhappy was the lot of Nirut, mingled with Terb of SSARG, malice plagued the planet of Toso (most of these being of the Cadaverous Planets). In all ways, evil sought most to cast a dim light on things, but one must judge the times. For many hated many, and those how did not smile or hate, where perhaps trying simply to survive in the feared atmosphere of the times; the Lion King of Lihmoir, turned his back on many. And Nirut and his father the Blue King conquered much, for example, the planets of: SSARG, Toso, Moiromma, Ice-cap (Asteroid-moon), Lihterb and many more places, except earth, and the moon called Retina. Somehow it seems it sister moon got spared, that of course is where the Great Siren spent much of her time, and he did not want to disturb the status quo, or perhaps out of respect, for we all have heroes, and she was his hero, as the Lion King’s hero was Nirut. Nor did he waste his time trying to conjure the Gray Planet, I don’t think he felt it was worth his effort (you know, the planet that Siren got killed on, and the Jawbone people—some of them, ended up on the runaway comet); Life seems to go in circles if we follow them. The Quiet Mound on planet SSARG was the battlefield for the main battle of all these happenings, and Yahoo, ended up being the new king of Planet Lihterb (Nirut’s home planet), and a new era came about. Semyas of course ended up on the runaway comet, the last of the stories (an era Rue and the Think Tank, with the Cobbler kind of ushered in, of course by the approval of God Almighty, how else could it be). What more can I say, it was quite an adventure, if you followed it from its beginnings. Until we meet again, on our next voyage.

Meeting Robert Bly (a poem)

Meeting Robert Bly (a poem)

When he meets people, people who appreciate poetry
perhaps in particular, his poetry, or his friends poetry,
or just poetry in particular, to him, (Robert Bly)
this is what it’s all about! The multi rhythm in people,
the actions, the warmth, the voice, the cold, and the face—
he sees it all and more, it is all poetry to him, 24-7…
it’s his bread and water, his wine and song,
his reason for living beyond the unknown.
I have read all his poetry, his eyes and soul look deep into
the abyss, concentrated his hands remain steady,
his mind never escapes his eyes and heart, and thinking.
Meeting another person is a big thing, it is a new path
a new song, perhaps a new foundation somewhere yet to be;
it is all we have here on earth, in this time period, you and me.
It is simple how it works, so it seems, or so it should be,
and perhaps he found the essence of life, the secret of living, between human beings. He re-examines the nature and function of man, man being his poetry, he goes even further, traditional distinctions between high and low, he lives inside his language, a physical world, in imagery, his external reality, it is all in his face, his hands, his smile, his poetry.


1926 8-3-2007

Note: I had only met Mr. Bly once, he did send my wife a post card, after I did an article on him some years back, and he did send me once a letter with is signature on it, and I had once got an invitation to go to his house, back in the 1980s, during my drinking days, but never made it. We really cannot make up for lost time, or lost invitations, but we can look for new ones. And so here is a poem to the worlds last great poet, the last of his kind.

Semyaz, an Archangel's Judgement (The Runaway Comet)

The Unfinished Tale (now completed)
The Scourged Dark Ages (part II)

Semyaz, an Archangel’s Judgement

(The Runaway Comet)


Advance: If you have read the journal notes on the epic poem concerning Semyaz, and his island, in the pacific you will know his story up to that point, Semyaz (sometimes spelled with an end ‘s’ or ‘z’ both the same person, was also part of the adventures concerning th e Lihmoirils, from the Black Galaxy, in the twentieth-militiaman, BC. So he has been around for a while. Also, Andaman, a demigod who took over the planetoid Ice-cap, the moon that circles the Planet Moiromma, a nearby solar system to Earth’s; this demigod was as huge as the legendary Tiamat, and as strong as the infamous Marduk. And like a supernatural being, he could transform into the physical or invisible form at will.
And if you have read the Cadaverous Planets, the name King Luhtc will emerge; once king of Moiromma, he died on the planet and no one ever knew where he was resurrected, until now; and Bah vii the High Priest. This is one of the lost tales, also considered the unfinished tale, because it was put into a book unfinished, but will of course not remain that way. The runaway comet in this tale is the size of the small moon that is close to planet SSARG, called Rotma, the larger moon is Retina (sometimes spelled with the e and the i reversed. Some folks have identified this comet to be TPC, the large body that creeps out of the Earth’s Solar System, and over Asteroid Ice-cap, and back around and over the planet Cibara and back though the Kuiper Belt, and back into Earth’s solar system, but I doubt that it is, for still others say it is a planetoid, for there are many harp players on this runaway planet of sorts. This tale was lost and now found it is the tale of Semyas after he left the island, it takes place at the end of the dark ages (400 to 800 AD), and in to the early Middle Ages, Earth Time. And perhaps this can be considered part of the Cadaverous Planets, since most of the folks in this tale, are from that category.


For whatever reasons he was not judged as harshly as Azaz’el and Buer and his bosom and gay demonic companion, Gusoyn, both really only simple demons and for the most part avoided skirmishes except for a good laugh now and then; and it was so, when they provoked Semyas to leave his abode and commit a second unpardonable sin (if you have read the first part of this you would understand). But because he was so dumb to be tricked, Ura’el had come to subdue him and in the process gave him a new judgment that Azaz’el heard about in the deep Abyss, and was profoundly disgusted. His first harsh judgment took place in 4000 BC; this second one was as indicated before, the last years into the Dark Ages, seeping into the early Middle Ages.
Thus, his judgment was to be cast upon a runaway comet until the end of days. And now he has arrived on his comet.

All the land was cold and desolate and Semyaz, looked upon it and thought with little hope, and saw what he would call, The Rockwall Cliffs, there into its side was a dugout cave, someone had lived there before, here he would call home.
A ways down from the cliffs was a large lake, and a river that came out of it.
The orbit of his comet was as follows (which soon he would find out for himself): it crossed Earth’s sun, and through its solar system, across the Kuiper Belt of asteroids, across the residing solar system, of planet Moiromma and across the planet Cibara and into the Black Galaxy, across Planet SSARG, and its two moons, Retina, and Rotma, plus the nearby planet known as the Gray Planet, or Cirumia, and into darkness, when it came out, it was near Mars.
Semyas discovered his comet was perhaps one eighth the size of Earth’s moon. It took five years to complete one orbit around or somehow through the two galaxies, and sometimes the comet was red hot, and sometimes 400-degrees cold, where there was no heat at all in the atmosphere. Such weather lasted only weeks, and then it would change for weeks to blazing hot, between 300 to 600 F; the lakes and river would almost evaporate, completely, and the comet often would slow down, then regenerate itself and speed on through its orbit again.
It would come close to hitting objects in cosmic storms, meteorites, but it never did completely, it did gather up dust and other particles of residue, even from planets, such as eggs, and fish, also there was a few Forlorn Eagles, and Tor-rats around.
The Forlorn Eagle was a large bird, 300-pounds, with a wing span of some thirty feet; it had lived on the comet for centuries, and could only fly short distances at a time.
The Flock

The year was 1010 AD, over two hundred years had passed and to Semyaz’s surprise, he found a group of beings on the comet. Had he searched sooner he would of course come across them.
He had discovered them one night, when he sailed across the lake, and down the river away, and saw a fire, a campsite, with tents, and a small rock fortress, about thirty folks.

I shall introduce them to you: there was King Luhtc of Planet Moiromma, he had died and ended up here, a 95th resurrection for him. It seemed he was second in command. Then there was Andaman, a powerful demigod, who took over Ice-cap, the Asteroid moon by planet Moiromma, unlike Semyaz, whom was a renegade angelic being, he was a demigod whom was cast on the comet by Ura’el. Also in this little group was Shamhat, of Uruk (2700 BC), and Axon II, a shadow Demon who had once lived on Planet Mercury. And Bah vii’a, High Priest of Ice Cap, sentenced to the rock, or comet, and there was Sanet (also known as Anorf) (also known as Princess of Rotma, at one time, the large moon that orbits Planet SSARG). And then there were children, old men, women and young men who comprised the rest of the group known as the Jawbone People (because of their long jaws that hung low and outward from the Gray Planet, know as Cirumia.

(Note: the Jawbone populace —“At first glance, it looked like a real person, at second glance, it was a creature with three arms, eyes that were so far apart, it would see in back of itself; it was covered with brown leather skin, knotted like muscles, a protruding large, very large jaw; a think nose, and small ears, it wore a loincloth.”

Information from: “Planet of Gray Dawn,”
The Saga of: “Siren the Great”
Part III to the Planet SSARG


Invader


Semyaz, put long and deliberating thought on the matter of, if he should invade the group, he would be the most powerful he claimed to himself, but if he did, he could lose the only companionship he would ever have. He had remembered the evil empire that was built on Lihmoir so many years ago, where the young king and demigod Illiria took it all at will and ended up with nothing. Being a bully had its consequences. He was not of the demonic race, rather the angelic race, and dominating the group would be easy, unless Axon, tried to hold him, and Andaman tried to overpower him, both demonic beings, and Luhtc, strong as a bull, but would tire out quick, those were the main contenders he’d have to worry about. But no, he was not going to do it that way. And so he stood at the rim of their camp, night and day came and left, and he was never to be welcomed.


(A year later—1011 AD) A year had passed, Semyas had fell into a slump, darkness you could say, depression, stumbling inland and out of the rocky slopes of the Comet. He got a lot of sleep to say the least, trying to avoid his grief.
The night sentinels never allowed him to enter the campsite, as often he’d venture across the lake to see the movements of the flock. He would watch them plant and harvest the small squares of land each person of the flock would be allowed, of vegetables they had grown, and so forth. Yet Sanet still caught his eye, the late princess of Rotma (whom was born on Moiromma, and brought to Rotma, thus she had Moiromma blood, meaning she had a life expediency of 900-years, and about one-hundred resurrections, it was this, her last resurrection that brought her to the runaway comet). She was pale and old, but yet beautiful with her long golden hair, and one of a few women.
It was this one particular evening, when Semyas was standing outside the campsite, hoping to get a glimpse of Sanet, she did appear, and rumor was she was to wed Moirommalit king, ex king I should say, Luhtc. She walked up to Semyaz, which caught him off guard, surprised he was, and she said,
“You come to see me?”
Stunned for words he was indeed, but “Yes!” he said, adding “to gaze upon your beauty!”
“It is along way across the lake,” she replied (but there was something developing, in her eyes, a mood, she wanted something).
“If you wish me to be your mate on this comet, you will have to win me, and quickly, for this evening I will be wed to Luhtc.”
“Why is that?” asked Semyaz.
“I am a Moirommalit by birth, and he was King of Moiromma until he lost a battle there once, and was killed and resurrected now a number of times, he ends up here, and I have little choice in the matter unless you kill him, and he will disintegrate, and be bound for another planet.”
Semyaz did not answer right away—he thought on the matter, thought little time was left; Luhtc saw Semyaz and was heading over towards him and Sanet.

The Contest

Semyaz stood before the great bonfire of the flock, he had told Luhtc in so many words, he would take Sanet by force, or contest, as often his planet allowed for, in a dispute about a bride to be. Thus, Luhtc had little choice in the matter. Luhtc was huge as a living physical creature, and strong, and Moirommalits could endure, but could he endure a ex angelic being, whom now was a scorned archangel by heaven, and hell, and his renegade angelic flock; he also was not all he used to be. But Semyaz made his stand, and Sanet had used the moment to avoid the marriage between Luhtc and her. To Luhtc she’d be a play thing, with Semyas, she might have some sport, fun, dignity, and protection.
The harp player was from TPC, a planetoid of sorts, in the solar system of Moiromma, he played for the flock, as Semyaz and Luhtc got ready for the brawl. Any and everything was allowed. The objective was to kill Luhtc, or to exhaust Semyaz, thus, he would allow defeat of Sanet in such a case, and leave the flock as it was, with no revenge intended.

The battle had started, Semyaz was never thrown down, not to the dirt nor into the fire, he stood his ground and Luhtc, although thrown down he fought for twenty-hours, trying to exhaust the angelic being. And Semyaz was getting tired, but not exhausted, he would not quite, and it was at one particular moment, Semyaz had Luhtc by the throat, but would not kill him, he knew such memories stick into the minds of others, it might be better to give mercy, living and physical beings, and for once he did not want to win by fear, which would develop after the fight, and he said, “I will spare your life, should you retire across the lake, far from all of the flock and me.” And the king knowing he had but few resurrections left, agreed, and that evening he rowed across the lake and found himself a new abode.




Conclusion:

End Notes of the “Soldiers of Nirut,” Series

So ends the tales of Nirut or its series that started with, “The Soldiers of Nirut and ends with, “The Runaway Comet,” and the last of the Lihmoirions and the stories of the Black Galaxy, which includes Marduk the evil one and his dealings with the whole lot. Hell’s lot also, and the few characters from Atlantis, Ais being one. In this series many characters from other stories came into the picture. Unhappy was the lot of Nirut, mingled with Terb of SSARG, malice plagued the planet of Toso (most of these being of the Cadaverous Planets). In all ways, evil sought most to cast a dim light on things, but one must judge the times. For many hated many, and those how did not smile or hate, where perhaps trying simply to survive in the feared atmosphere of the times; the Lion King of Lihmoir, turned his back on many. And Nirut and his father the Blue King conquered much, for example, the planets of: SSARG, Toso, Moiromma, Ice-cap (Asteroid-moon), Lihterb and many more places, except earth, and the moon called Retina. Somehow it seems it sister moon got spared, that of course is where the Great Siren spent much of her time, and he did not want to disturb the status quo, or perhaps out of respect, for we all have heroes, and she was his hero, as the Lion King’s hero was Nirut. Nor did he waste his time trying to conjure the Gray Planet, I don’t think he felt it was worth his effort (you know, the planet that Siren got killed on, and the Jawbone people—some of them, ended up on the runaway comet); Life seems to go in circles if we follow them. The Quiet Mound on planet SSARG was the battlefield for the main battle of all these happenings, and Yahoo, ended up being the new king of Planet Lihterb (Nirut’s home planet), and a new era came about. Semyas of course ended up on the runaway comet, the last of the stories (an era Rue and the Think Tank, with the Cobbler kind of ushered in, of course by the approval of God Almighty, how else could it be). What more can I say, it was quite an adventure, if you followed it from its beginnings. Until we meet again, on our next voyage.



Index

The Jawbone People
Planet of Gray Dawn (or Cirumia)
Semyas, Angelic Renegade (once Archangel)
The Rockwall Cliffs of the Runaway Comet (also known as TPC?)
King Luhtc of Planet Moiromma
Andaman, powerful demigod of Ice-cap
Axon II, a Shadow Demon, Lotus Ghost (originally from Mercury)
a nasty looking shadow, with a hideous smile to it, and teeth that seemed to have layers; two legs hung
Bah vii ‘a High Priest of Asteroid Ice Cap
Rotma—second and largest moon by SSARG
Retine—first and smallest moon by SSARG
(Where King Nirut gathered his army to attack SSARG)
Sanet (also known as Anorf) once princess of Rotma

Written on tablet paper on 7-26-2007, completed on the computer on 8-3-2007 (written at the Platform)