Search for Meaning
At night, after the ship secures
from General Quarters, the crew
stands on deck and watches
the country burn.
A sharp pop-pop reaches us,
then another, until it's a dull roar.
Everyone falls silent, and watches
the country burn.
After chow we take on ammo.
Done, Bosun blows Taps. We sleep,
We know, tomorrow we'll be back
to burn the country.
by Contributing Poet James Fowler Copyright © 2020
VWP 2020 First published in VietnamWarPoetry.com
Deconstructing Now
9 PM, my neighbor blasts me awake
with 4 th of July fireworks.
Five decades disappear.
A radio squawks, "Need rounds
at the attached coordinates."
A jungle burns. Screams echo.
10:30, fireworks done.
I pace the house, go to bed.
3 AM, a Nam nightmare explodes.
Clang! Clang! Clang!
"All Hands, General Quarters!
Man your Battle Stations!"
Whee-wuu! Whee-wuu!
"Take a brace! Take a brace!
Incoming! Incoming! Take a brace!"
In the living room, I stumble, fall,
shatter the end table,
crash back to the present.
by Contributing Poet James Fowler Copyright © 2020
VWP 2020 First published in VietnamWarPoetry.com
Poem Title
The television's high-pitched roar
of guns sends me into a storm.
The rain-clicks on my coat become
the noisy rattle of hailstones.
My memory dredges up the coast
of Nam. The sounds become the whoosh
of launching planes as we respond
to frantic calls for fire-support.
The pounding racket slows, then stops
and I get kissed by flakes of snow.
Inside the Village Coffee Shop
I order toast, a cup of Joe.
The window seat lets me look out,
relax, get past the news reports.
by Contributing Poet James Fowler Copyright © 2020
VWP 2020 First published in VietnamWarPoetry.com
Manifest Anger
An old man clutches
a newspaper in both hands,
stares out the kitchen window.
Inside him, a young man
stands on the fantail
of an aircraft carrier
on its way to the coast
of Vietnam. Tomorrow,
it will launch planes
to support a new offensive.
The old man crumples the paper,
flings it across the room.
It lands, half-headline open
Troops on the way...
The old man screams,
"When will we learn?"
rises, walks over,
grabs the newspaper,
tosses it into the trash.
The morning sun tints
the window pane
red.
by Contributing Poet James Fowler Copyright © 2020
VWP 2020 First published in VietnamWarPoetry.com
At night, after the ship secures
from General Quarters, the crew
stands on deck and watches
the country burn.
A sharp pop-pop reaches us,
then another, until it's a dull roar.
Everyone falls silent, and watches
the country burn.
After chow we take on ammo.
Done, Bosun blows Taps. We sleep,
We know, tomorrow we'll be back
to burn the country.
by Contributing Poet James Fowler Copyright © 2020
VWP 2020 First published in VietnamWarPoetry.com
Deconstructing Now
9 PM, my neighbor blasts me awake
with 4 th of July fireworks.
Five decades disappear.
A radio squawks, "Need rounds
at the attached coordinates."
A jungle burns. Screams echo.
10:30, fireworks done.
I pace the house, go to bed.
3 AM, a Nam nightmare explodes.
Clang! Clang! Clang!
"All Hands, General Quarters!
Man your Battle Stations!"
Whee-wuu! Whee-wuu!
"Take a brace! Take a brace!
Incoming! Incoming! Take a brace!"
In the living room, I stumble, fall,
shatter the end table,
crash back to the present.
by Contributing Poet James Fowler Copyright © 2020
VWP 2020 First published in VietnamWarPoetry.com
Poem Title
The television's high-pitched roar
of guns sends me into a storm.
The rain-clicks on my coat become
the noisy rattle of hailstones.
My memory dredges up the coast
of Nam. The sounds become the whoosh
of launching planes as we respond
to frantic calls for fire-support.
The pounding racket slows, then stops
and I get kissed by flakes of snow.
Inside the Village Coffee Shop
I order toast, a cup of Joe.
The window seat lets me look out,
relax, get past the news reports.
by Contributing Poet James Fowler Copyright © 2020
VWP 2020 First published in VietnamWarPoetry.com
Manifest Anger
An old man clutches
a newspaper in both hands,
stares out the kitchen window.
Inside him, a young man
stands on the fantail
of an aircraft carrier
on its way to the coast
of Vietnam. Tomorrow,
it will launch planes
to support a new offensive.
The old man crumples the paper,
flings it across the room.
It lands, half-headline open
Troops on the way...
The old man screams,
"When will we learn?"
rises, walks over,
grabs the newspaper,
tosses it into the trash.
The morning sun tints
the window pane
red.
by Contributing Poet James Fowler Copyright © 2020
VWP 2020 First published in VietnamWarPoetry.com
Bio: James Fowler Retired Navy, lives in Charlestown, NH.
His latest book, Falling Ashes, was volume VII in Hobblebush Press's Granite State Poets series.
Jim spent parts of 72 and 73 off the coast of Vietnam.
When the ship, the USS Coral Sea (CV-43) returned to the states, Jim headed home on leave,
but was jumped in LA airport by a gang of his peers who shoved him around
and called him "baby killer" and "war monger."
He decided not to get out, re-enlisted and returned to Nam
on board the USS Worden (CG-18) for the evacuation in 75.
He spent 25 years in the Navy and had his retirement held up by Desert Storm.
His ship, USS Independence (CV-61) lead the second wave.
His latest book, Falling Ashes, was volume VII in Hobblebush Press's Granite State Poets series.
Jim spent parts of 72 and 73 off the coast of Vietnam.
When the ship, the USS Coral Sea (CV-43) returned to the states, Jim headed home on leave,
but was jumped in LA airport by a gang of his peers who shoved him around
and called him "baby killer" and "war monger."
He decided not to get out, re-enlisted and returned to Nam
on board the USS Worden (CG-18) for the evacuation in 75.
He spent 25 years in the Navy and had his retirement held up by Desert Storm.
His ship, USS Independence (CV-61) lead the second wave.
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