Vietnam Remembered
I rose from the seat that hot March day,
To a strange, foreign land a half globe away.
I thought to myself, "This place smells like shit",
But too numb to say or think more on it.
The air was heavy, so humid, so thick;
I feared I’d collapse before walking a click.
Departing the plane we were ordered to stand;
Forming two ranks by a shouted command.
"Attenn-hut! Salute!" Came the ordering cry,
We snapped to respect without knowing why.
Facing the gangplank, in withering heat
Wondering what "lifer" we'd been pressed to greet.
Fighter jet banshees screamed by so loud;
As we sweat in silence, our minds in a cloud.
Trucks moved in slowly and stopped near our plane;
We stiffened salutes knowing we're in the game.
Men jumped down quickly to the loading prepare,
No lifers? No hotshots? No big-wigs were there.
Only just boxes ... handled gently with care.
Long wooden boxes took the seats we left there;
As we watched and saluted and stood there steadfast.
The boxes were carried, through our vigil they passed.
We all too soon knew without uttering a sound;
The reason our lines were formed and held this ground.
Our brothers were leaving.
They are going home.
Not to hear speeches or fanfare or praise;
Not to hear taps as they're placed in their graves.
Not to get married, have children or dreams fulfilled;
But wait in our shadows, their gardens untilled.
Sleep well my brothers, your hell is over.
"Atten-hut! ... At ease, men!"
Gasping for breath and sweating like rain;
We heard a voice call out a sardonic refrain:
"Welcome to Vietnam, gentlemen."
So many years have passed since that day;
I boxed up those memories and stored them away.
Many worse memories are packed along side;
I wonder what's real and what still I hide.
Long wooden boxes locked up so tight;
But magically open on some sultry night
They dance in my visions, they screwed with my head;
They shriek in my nightmares, their screams I so dread
Blurred faces, names forgotten, emotions that died;
I walk through life feeling nothing inside.
Dreams were a cursed, wretched array,
Parades of dead warriors I've packed away.
Their faces sometimes vivid, their names on a wall;
I try to keep moving in spite of them all.
I hope they know the prayers said in their name;
I hope they look fondly of the man I became.
Their life was sadly taken for some senseless cause,
Their spirit lives on and their love gives me pause.
They sacrificed their all for us ...
We must live our best for them.
Sleep well my brothers, 'til we meet again.
by Contributing Poet David Sandgrund Copyright © 2015
VWP 2015 First published in VietnamWarPoetry.com
Vinh Long, 1st View
The helicopter lifted off
Leaving him alone
Heart pounding, sweating
In the hot and humid breeze
His clothes sticking to his body
Shielding his eyes from the river's glare
He watches brown water rushing past
Green vegetation floating by
Catching on the rocks
A woman washing clothes
Another collecting the water hyacinth
Straw hats covering their heads
The breeze blowing
Their baggy pants
Their thin blouses
At the river's edge
A young girl stands
With a sweet, tender look
Smiling she hands him
A water hyacinth
Blue petals sparkling
In the sunlight
A gift from
A serene beauty
Behind him traffic noises
Tinny motors, squeaky horns
Mingle with the distant
Unintelligible voices
From the market
From passing boat
The air filled with strange odors
Fish, drying vegetation
Food from the market stalls
Avoiding the bicycles and motor bikes
He turns and walks
Down the road
by Contributing Poet David Sandgrund Copyright © 2015
VWP 2015 First published in VietnamWarPoetry.com
A Woman of the Mekong
The woman has a round face
More beautiful than the moon
Springtime dancing in her eyes
Bare feet, brown as earth,
She steers her boat along the shore
Picking water hyacinths
Gathering Lotus
To sell to romantic passersby
As the sun sets she
Hides her boat
Among the lilies
Singing quietly to herself
The setting sun reflected
In the river's waters
The woman of the flowers
Earth brown face
Trembles in the ripples
by Contributing Poet David Sandgrund Copyright © 2015
VWP 2015 First published in VietnamWarPoetry.com
Rice Paddies Moonlight
Alone and full, the moon
Floats over the house by the paddies.
Into the night the water reflects the stars above.
The bright silver spills on the water never still.
The image more brilliant than precious silk.
The circle without blemish.
The empty paddies without sound.
And in that silence the rice grows.
The same clear glory extends for a thousand paddies.
The same brilliance for a thousand eyes.
by Contributing Poet David Sandgrund Copyright © 2015
VWP 2015 First published in VietnamWarPoetry.com
Variations on a Theme
A narrow rim along the rice paddies crunches underfoot to each step
high above the sun beats down
on the fields, dry and yellow
in the summer heat, wide and warm and empty, with the occasional
bush emphasizing the clarity
of an open landscape inviting him
to sit down, back against a hot rock, pleasing, soothing. Staring ahead
into the trembling distance having
no thoughts of tomorrow or yesterday - there's the rock, and the wide,
wide prospect, falling away, falling slowly, slowly away.
by Contributing Poet David Sandgrund Copyright © 2015
VWP 2015 First published in VietnamWarPoetry.com
I rose from the seat that hot March day,
To a strange, foreign land a half globe away.
I thought to myself, "This place smells like shit",
But too numb to say or think more on it.
The air was heavy, so humid, so thick;
I feared I’d collapse before walking a click.
Departing the plane we were ordered to stand;
Forming two ranks by a shouted command.
"Attenn-hut! Salute!" Came the ordering cry,
We snapped to respect without knowing why.
Facing the gangplank, in withering heat
Wondering what "lifer" we'd been pressed to greet.
Fighter jet banshees screamed by so loud;
As we sweat in silence, our minds in a cloud.
Trucks moved in slowly and stopped near our plane;
We stiffened salutes knowing we're in the game.
Men jumped down quickly to the loading prepare,
No lifers? No hotshots? No big-wigs were there.
Only just boxes ... handled gently with care.
Long wooden boxes took the seats we left there;
As we watched and saluted and stood there steadfast.
The boxes were carried, through our vigil they passed.
We all too soon knew without uttering a sound;
The reason our lines were formed and held this ground.
Our brothers were leaving.
They are going home.
Not to hear speeches or fanfare or praise;
Not to hear taps as they're placed in their graves.
Not to get married, have children or dreams fulfilled;
But wait in our shadows, their gardens untilled.
Sleep well my brothers, your hell is over.
"Atten-hut! ... At ease, men!"
Gasping for breath and sweating like rain;
We heard a voice call out a sardonic refrain:
"Welcome to Vietnam, gentlemen."
So many years have passed since that day;
I boxed up those memories and stored them away.
Many worse memories are packed along side;
I wonder what's real and what still I hide.
Long wooden boxes locked up so tight;
But magically open on some sultry night
They dance in my visions, they screwed with my head;
They shriek in my nightmares, their screams I so dread
Blurred faces, names forgotten, emotions that died;
I walk through life feeling nothing inside.
Dreams were a cursed, wretched array,
Parades of dead warriors I've packed away.
Their faces sometimes vivid, their names on a wall;
I try to keep moving in spite of them all.
I hope they know the prayers said in their name;
I hope they look fondly of the man I became.
Their life was sadly taken for some senseless cause,
Their spirit lives on and their love gives me pause.
They sacrificed their all for us ...
We must live our best for them.
Sleep well my brothers, 'til we meet again.
by Contributing Poet David Sandgrund Copyright © 2015
VWP 2015 First published in VietnamWarPoetry.com
Vinh Long, 1st View
The helicopter lifted off
Leaving him alone
Heart pounding, sweating
In the hot and humid breeze
His clothes sticking to his body
Shielding his eyes from the river's glare
He watches brown water rushing past
Green vegetation floating by
Catching on the rocks
A woman washing clothes
Another collecting the water hyacinth
Straw hats covering their heads
The breeze blowing
Their baggy pants
Their thin blouses
At the river's edge
A young girl stands
With a sweet, tender look
Smiling she hands him
A water hyacinth
Blue petals sparkling
In the sunlight
A gift from
A serene beauty
Behind him traffic noises
Tinny motors, squeaky horns
Mingle with the distant
Unintelligible voices
From the market
From passing boat
The air filled with strange odors
Fish, drying vegetation
Food from the market stalls
Avoiding the bicycles and motor bikes
He turns and walks
Down the road
by Contributing Poet David Sandgrund Copyright © 2015
VWP 2015 First published in VietnamWarPoetry.com
A Woman of the Mekong
The woman has a round face
More beautiful than the moon
Springtime dancing in her eyes
Bare feet, brown as earth,
She steers her boat along the shore
Picking water hyacinths
Gathering Lotus
To sell to romantic passersby
As the sun sets she
Hides her boat
Among the lilies
Singing quietly to herself
The setting sun reflected
In the river's waters
The woman of the flowers
Earth brown face
Trembles in the ripples
by Contributing Poet David Sandgrund Copyright © 2015
VWP 2015 First published in VietnamWarPoetry.com
Rice Paddies Moonlight
Alone and full, the moon
Floats over the house by the paddies.
Into the night the water reflects the stars above.
The bright silver spills on the water never still.
The image more brilliant than precious silk.
The circle without blemish.
The empty paddies without sound.
And in that silence the rice grows.
The same clear glory extends for a thousand paddies.
The same brilliance for a thousand eyes.
by Contributing Poet David Sandgrund Copyright © 2015
VWP 2015 First published in VietnamWarPoetry.com
Variations on a Theme
A narrow rim along the rice paddies crunches underfoot to each step
high above the sun beats down
on the fields, dry and yellow
in the summer heat, wide and warm and empty, with the occasional
bush emphasizing the clarity
of an open landscape inviting him
to sit down, back against a hot rock, pleasing, soothing. Staring ahead
into the trembling distance having
no thoughts of tomorrow or yesterday - there's the rock, and the wide,
wide prospect, falling away, falling slowly, slowly away.
by Contributing Poet David Sandgrund Copyright © 2015
VWP 2015 First published in VietnamWarPoetry.com
Bio: David Sandgrund served in Viet Nam from Feb 1967 to Feb 1968 with the 6th/56th ADA HQ Hawk Missile Battalion.
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