His Limbo Soliloquy
Actually, I like lockdown. I already was before COVID anyway,
but now I’ve got my privacy. No family feeling forced to visit
or hold vigil in my netherworld, he confides through the phone.
Both of us former Army soldiers placing us on common ground
made introductions easier with the usual “where were we when”
comparisons of duty assignments all military members embrace.
Though sharing multiple telephone calls these past seven months
since my assignment to be his companion as a hospice volunteer,
I have yet to meet him face-to-face due to pandemic restrictions.
Using his bedside number at the nursing home I can call anytime,
not worry about visiting hours. I ask if he’s busy, got time to talk.
His answer’s most always the same, Just busy here being alone,
too close to death to complain. Clicking me to speaker he begins
what he calls “me-memories from a time when when was when.”
Mostly musing of being anywhere but there, lost in an actual place,
blurring “what was with what is” behind and in front of his shadow,
recalling dreams as a younger man, of a future in past perfect tense.
And times talking of present times from his no man’s land outpost,
All days end as they begin in purgatory, today recopying yesterday,
cared for by hosts of faceless masked angels not letting me die alone.
Forgive me only thinking of myself, I just need you to hear I’m here.
Inside I’m your age, the two of us sharing a brew at the NCO club,
years ago and oceans away, comrades-in-arms talking of our day.
To me he’s the sergeant with permanent change of station orders
in transition for his final mission, ending his time on active service,
in hopes his God is religious and his terminal assignment is good.
by Contributing Poet Carl "Papa" Palmer Copyright © 2026
VWP 2026 First published in VietnamWarPoetry.com
Hurry Up and Wait
Sir, permission to speak, major sir. Go ahead, private.
Sir, what time is the 10 o’clock inspection, major sir?
You mean the ten hundred hours inspection, private?
Sir, yes sir, I mean ten hundred hours inspection, sir.
The inspection will be at ten hundred hours, private.
Sir, yes sir, however we’ve been standing here since
ten hundred hours for thirty minutes now, major sir.
It will be ten hundred hours when I say it is, private,
as he checks his watch, waits for the colonel to arrive.
Will I ever get the military out of my mind, must each
situation become another army wrinkle in time? While
I wait thirty minutes past my 10 o’clock appointment,
ponder if I should be the private, ask the receptionist
how much longer until my 10 o’clock job interview or
take the role of major and wait for the colonel to arrive.
by Contributing Poet Carl "Papa" Palmer Copyright © 2026
VWP 2026 First published in VietnamWarPoetry.com
As Advertised
(Haibun Poem)
Obviously out of uniform, the only soldier not wearing his field jacket
is easily spotted in my morning formation to ensure proper fit and wear
of the newly issued 1984 Battle Dress Uniform prior to the commander’s
inspection this afternoon.
The Army BDU camouflage pattern of green, brown, tan and black replaces
the solid colored olive drab green work fatigue uniform worn since 1952.
“Where’s your jacket, Private?”
“I took it out of my wall locker, First Sergeant, laid it on the bunk, looked
away for only a minute while putting on my boots and then couldn’t find
my jacket anywhere.”
Unable to stop laughing, I dismiss the formation.
Lost:
Camouflaged Jacket
No distinguishing characteristics
by Contributing Poet Carl "Papa" Palmer Copyright © 2026
VWP 2026 First published in VietnamWarPoetry.com
Army Buddies
He starts in on one of his
"that reminds me of when"
war stories he’s repeated
numerous times over time
to us fellow retirees at his table,
but this particular one
he’s busy telling us now
is his third time telling today.
I nod, tent my hands,
murmur agreement,
anxious for him to finish
this oft heard story
which reminds me
of one of my stories
that I need to tell before I forget,
even if we’ve all heard it before.
by Contributing Poet Carl "Papa" Palmer Copyright © 2020
VWP 2020 First published in VietnamWarPoetry.com
Out of the Kitchen
(Haibun Poem)
Responding to my desire to learn how to throw a wicked curve ball Mom says without hesitation, "You'll just have to wait until the baby bottles finish boiling. If you're in such a big hurry you can help by taking them from the kettle." She hands me the tongs, "Put them on the counter to dry while I get Dori from her rocker and dressed to go outside."
The little league coach, Mr. Temple, praises my winning performance, says I'm his new star pitcher. "What a great curve ball, Ace. I bet your dad is really proud."
game ball
placed atop
folded American flag
by Contributing Poet Carl "Papa" Palmer Copyright © 2015
VWP 2015 First published in VietnamWarPoetry.com
Green Card Soldier
seasonal migrant worker
unwed mother in Arizona
temporary work visa expires
sent back across the border
she allows her teenaged son
a chance to have a better life
than his first eighteen years
to stay and join the U.S. Army
he fights to become an American
becomes an American fighting man
offers his life for this country and
becomes a citizen ... posthumously
by Contributing Poet Carl "Papa" Palmer Copyright © 2015
VWP 2015 First published in VietnamWarPoetry.com
Portrait of Helen
Her permanent is just that,
not a hair out of place, ever.
She smiles forever her same
small smile from this cracked
faded photo framed in oval pewter
on the metal wall locker shelf
next to my barracks bay bunk.
Her best green dress and pale
jade necklace both enhance her
rusty red hair remembered from
that day in this yellowed black and
white print. I touch her picture,
stroke her face, long for her embrace,
to breathe her aroma of lavender sachet.
I close my eyes and sway as my record
player plays, "My Wild Irish Rose".
by Contributing Poet Carl "Papa" Palmer Copyright © 2015
VWP 2015 First published in VietnamWarPoetry.com
incoming
daughter pops bubble wrap
laughs as Daddy dives
behind the couch
after his tour in Vietnam
by Contributing Poet Carl "Papa" Palmer Copyright © 2015
VWP 2015 First published in VietnamWarPoetry.com
Dalton
Wayne was his name
before he went to war,
now calls himself, Dalton.
Seven seniors joined the army
buddy plan after high school
graduation, class of '66.
Newspaper picture
posted permanently in city hall
shows seven salutes to our flag
before boarding a Ft Bragg bus.
The seven young men:
Wayne, Dennis, Alan, Lester,
Tommy, Oscar and Ned
went to war.
Only Wayne comes home.
He sits on the bench
at the downtown greyhound depot,
each day, all day,
watches riders wave goodbye,
tears in their eyes,
greeted with handshakes,
hugged hello.
His cardboard sign displays
their names:
Dennis
Alan
Lester
Tommy
Oscar
Ned
He calls himself, Dalton.
by Contributing Poet Carl "Papa" Palmer Copyright © 2015
VWP 2015 First published in VietnamWarPoetry.com
Actually, I like lockdown. I already was before COVID anyway,
but now I’ve got my privacy. No family feeling forced to visit
or hold vigil in my netherworld, he confides through the phone.
Both of us former Army soldiers placing us on common ground
made introductions easier with the usual “where were we when”
comparisons of duty assignments all military members embrace.
Though sharing multiple telephone calls these past seven months
since my assignment to be his companion as a hospice volunteer,
I have yet to meet him face-to-face due to pandemic restrictions.
Using his bedside number at the nursing home I can call anytime,
not worry about visiting hours. I ask if he’s busy, got time to talk.
His answer’s most always the same, Just busy here being alone,
too close to death to complain. Clicking me to speaker he begins
what he calls “me-memories from a time when when was when.”
Mostly musing of being anywhere but there, lost in an actual place,
blurring “what was with what is” behind and in front of his shadow,
recalling dreams as a younger man, of a future in past perfect tense.
And times talking of present times from his no man’s land outpost,
All days end as they begin in purgatory, today recopying yesterday,
cared for by hosts of faceless masked angels not letting me die alone.
Forgive me only thinking of myself, I just need you to hear I’m here.
Inside I’m your age, the two of us sharing a brew at the NCO club,
years ago and oceans away, comrades-in-arms talking of our day.
To me he’s the sergeant with permanent change of station orders
in transition for his final mission, ending his time on active service,
in hopes his God is religious and his terminal assignment is good.
by Contributing Poet Carl "Papa" Palmer Copyright © 2026
VWP 2026 First published in VietnamWarPoetry.com
Hurry Up and Wait
Sir, permission to speak, major sir. Go ahead, private.
Sir, what time is the 10 o’clock inspection, major sir?
You mean the ten hundred hours inspection, private?
Sir, yes sir, I mean ten hundred hours inspection, sir.
The inspection will be at ten hundred hours, private.
Sir, yes sir, however we’ve been standing here since
ten hundred hours for thirty minutes now, major sir.
It will be ten hundred hours when I say it is, private,
as he checks his watch, waits for the colonel to arrive.
Will I ever get the military out of my mind, must each
situation become another army wrinkle in time? While
I wait thirty minutes past my 10 o’clock appointment,
ponder if I should be the private, ask the receptionist
how much longer until my 10 o’clock job interview or
take the role of major and wait for the colonel to arrive.
by Contributing Poet Carl "Papa" Palmer Copyright © 2026
VWP 2026 First published in VietnamWarPoetry.com
As Advertised
(Haibun Poem)
Obviously out of uniform, the only soldier not wearing his field jacket
is easily spotted in my morning formation to ensure proper fit and wear
of the newly issued 1984 Battle Dress Uniform prior to the commander’s
inspection this afternoon.
The Army BDU camouflage pattern of green, brown, tan and black replaces
the solid colored olive drab green work fatigue uniform worn since 1952.
“Where’s your jacket, Private?”
“I took it out of my wall locker, First Sergeant, laid it on the bunk, looked
away for only a minute while putting on my boots and then couldn’t find
my jacket anywhere.”
Unable to stop laughing, I dismiss the formation.
Lost:
Camouflaged Jacket
No distinguishing characteristics
by Contributing Poet Carl "Papa" Palmer Copyright © 2026
VWP 2026 First published in VietnamWarPoetry.com
Army Buddies
He starts in on one of his
"that reminds me of when"
war stories he’s repeated
numerous times over time
to us fellow retirees at his table,
but this particular one
he’s busy telling us now
is his third time telling today.
I nod, tent my hands,
murmur agreement,
anxious for him to finish
this oft heard story
which reminds me
of one of my stories
that I need to tell before I forget,
even if we’ve all heard it before.
by Contributing Poet Carl "Papa" Palmer Copyright © 2020
VWP 2020 First published in VietnamWarPoetry.com
Out of the Kitchen
(Haibun Poem)
Responding to my desire to learn how to throw a wicked curve ball Mom says without hesitation, "You'll just have to wait until the baby bottles finish boiling. If you're in such a big hurry you can help by taking them from the kettle." She hands me the tongs, "Put them on the counter to dry while I get Dori from her rocker and dressed to go outside."
The little league coach, Mr. Temple, praises my winning performance, says I'm his new star pitcher. "What a great curve ball, Ace. I bet your dad is really proud."
game ball
placed atop
folded American flag
by Contributing Poet Carl "Papa" Palmer Copyright © 2015
VWP 2015 First published in VietnamWarPoetry.com
Green Card Soldier
seasonal migrant worker
unwed mother in Arizona
temporary work visa expires
sent back across the border
she allows her teenaged son
a chance to have a better life
than his first eighteen years
to stay and join the U.S. Army
he fights to become an American
becomes an American fighting man
offers his life for this country and
becomes a citizen ... posthumously
by Contributing Poet Carl "Papa" Palmer Copyright © 2015
VWP 2015 First published in VietnamWarPoetry.com
Portrait of Helen
Her permanent is just that,
not a hair out of place, ever.
She smiles forever her same
small smile from this cracked
faded photo framed in oval pewter
on the metal wall locker shelf
next to my barracks bay bunk.
Her best green dress and pale
jade necklace both enhance her
rusty red hair remembered from
that day in this yellowed black and
white print. I touch her picture,
stroke her face, long for her embrace,
to breathe her aroma of lavender sachet.
I close my eyes and sway as my record
player plays, "My Wild Irish Rose".
by Contributing Poet Carl "Papa" Palmer Copyright © 2015
VWP 2015 First published in VietnamWarPoetry.com
incoming
daughter pops bubble wrap
laughs as Daddy dives
behind the couch
after his tour in Vietnam
by Contributing Poet Carl "Papa" Palmer Copyright © 2015
VWP 2015 First published in VietnamWarPoetry.com
Dalton
Wayne was his name
before he went to war,
now calls himself, Dalton.
Seven seniors joined the army
buddy plan after high school
graduation, class of '66.
Newspaper picture
posted permanently in city hall
shows seven salutes to our flag
before boarding a Ft Bragg bus.
The seven young men:
Wayne, Dennis, Alan, Lester,
Tommy, Oscar and Ned
went to war.
Only Wayne comes home.
He sits on the bench
at the downtown greyhound depot,
each day, all day,
watches riders wave goodbye,
tears in their eyes,
greeted with handshakes,
hugged hello.
His cardboard sign displays
their names:
Dennis
Alan
Lester
Tommy
Oscar
Ned
He calls himself, Dalton.
by Contributing Poet Carl "Papa" Palmer Copyright © 2015
VWP 2015 First published in VietnamWarPoetry.com
Bio: Carl "Papa" Palmer of Old Mill Road in Ridgeway, Virginia, lives in University Place, Washington. He is retired from the military and Federal Aviation Administration (FAA) enjoying life as “Papa” to his grand descendants and being a Franciscan Hospice volunteer. Carl is a Pushcart Prize, Best of the Net and Micro Award nominee. He is retired Army, his son is retired Air Force and his grand-girl is treating COVID as an AF nurse at Travis AFB. PAPA’s MOTTO: Long Weekends Forever!
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