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
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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