frag racing
october 1963 tự do street, sàigòn
old waiters at l'imperial
sprint from the open air cafe,
racing a pursuing billow
of hot shrapnel steel, smoke and fire
from mr. charlie's tossed grenade,
in the cartoonish fashion of
wile e. coyote, and barefoot,
their plastic flip-flops left behind
after the evening's close call,
their memories fresh blistered, scarred
from the experience of fire,
they return to their wait stations
for the next morning's all day shift
wearing new bata tennis shoes,
insurance against second place
in any next footrace with death
by Contributing Poet John Buquoi Copyright © 2016
VWP 2016 First published in VietnamWarPoetry.com
tropic lightning
củ chi base
ankle deep in the mud
of a malarial peanut farm
scraped from ancient jungle
now rome plowed clear,
agent oranged,
poisoned, defoliated deep,
the division troops,
the 11-bravos, 'grunts'
are tented in fetid favelas
of rotting surplus canvas
from korea, world war two,
(now blue hazed in mary jane)
to endure beyond combat
the heat, the bugs, the rats,
the endless monsoon
and the most inelegant
mess chow mélange
slung to steel trays
by much better fed,
sloven, sweat-soaked
sous chefs du jour
in the commanding
general's mess
nestled in officer country's
manicured, suburban
emerald otherworld
of putting green lawns
and air conditioned luxury
command staff trailers,
privacy fenced and gated,
guarded against the envy
and anger of their own troops,
obsequious white smocked
young soldiers bow and serve
at white linened tables,
the lobster, shrimp,
filet mignon, prime rib,
and cabernet, then light cigars
for the general and his staff,
fresh from the social stress
and bourboned branch
of the pre-meal open bar
the general's waitstaff,
chosen from among
his troops in the field
found to have performed
meritoriously and
deemed most worthy
of his boon reward assigned
as favored staff garçons,
replace departed predecessors,
out of favor late unworthies,
who have displeased,
or just not measured up
to command expectations
as proper table servants
and been banished back,
re-condemned to combat units
where their punishment,
up to and including
even death itself,
will be delivered by
the unhampered enemy
by Contributing Poet John Buquoi Copyright © 2016
VWP 2016 First published in VietnamWarPoetry.com
mindfulness
xuân loc, viet nam 1969
at the orphanage
beneath the rubber trees
the monks cook rice
for hungry children
in huge flat pans,
eighty kilos per meal,
three times a day
softly, absent reproof
or bitterness,
they whisper
that just as fragrant rice
multiplies in volume
as it cooks
over the open flame
so, too, the orphanage
swells in numbers
of orphaned children
ever since the americans
came to help their friends
and set the land
so much to fire
by Contributing Poet John Buquoi Copyright © 2015
VWP 2016 First published in VietnamFullDisclosure.org 2015
sàigòn samarra
he was a frightened priest, they said,
afraid to sleep in his own bed
terrified that death might find him
whenever counter batteries
found rocket launchers near his home
so he fled away to sàigòn
where he begged refuge from a friend
in a shed on the villa grounds,
cool in the shade of bird rich trees
across the alley from our house
the 'may offensive' underway,
that night katyushas stormed sàigòn
screaming into our neighborhood,
death's own double clapping harpies
whose lightning shattered walls and bounced
us from our bed onto the floor
hot steel scythe-shredding tamarinds,
mangoes and nurseries of birds
from the trees close beside the house
where sometimes we could dream of peace
morning light, we crossed the alley
onto the villa grounds to see
how danger close the night's barrage
and found only cold flame charred steel
powdered in blast burst concrete dust
where the priest's final night was spent,
the twisted frame of his deathbed,
bits of his meat and bone around
a morning feast for buddha birds
from the ashes of his karma
by Contributing Poet John Buquoi Copyright © 2016
VWP 2016 First published in VietnamWarPoetry.com
mandala
so tell me, will you, you've been there,
to war, i mean, that war, your war
i think, i know you know the score
i want your help to understand
this conundrum, unsolved puzzle
how it is god selects his side,
his team, and how he picks the ones
who get to say 'god's on our side',
and who's to live, and those to die
and who's the one, who stands opposed
on that side fighting without god
ma'am, i don't know a whole lot, but
i know there's one thing that i've learned
there ain't no god, at least not one
who picks or chooses who might live
or die and as for death itself,
it's always seemed to me to be
just the way it is, the dice rolled
or a spin of some fateful wheel,
however spun, or thrown the dice
but there's no god on either side
and, ma'am, as for the other one
the one you ask who isn't god,
one you think's on the other side
(you'd like to call him 'evil one')
well, if there's no such god to blame
or any one who chooses sides,
there's no need for another one
to be partnered to the other,
that missing one who isn’t there
then how is it i want to know
how choice is made who lives or dies
when the shooting starts there must be
some god who makes that election
there must be one who names the names
i mean, you know, the heroes, those
who'll die today, surely they're picked,
selected for hero's honor
i don't think that's just left to chance
well, death's no hero's honor, ma'am
those dead men, you say are heroes,
but i don't think so, nor did they,
no more than those forgotten ones,
those dead, too, on the other side
it's all the same, ma'am, all the same
they're all just dead, both sides, you see
no need of gods in war's death game
and yeah, what i know, for sure, ma'am,
is that those only ones who die,
i think that's what you asked about,
the special way they're picked, or not,
well, there's no god makes those calls
they’re just those time place fated ones,
they're right where they're supposed to be,
imagined on some disc of sand
so like this milky ring of stars,
when their last day comes to an end
and like the sand they're blown away
discarded dust along the wind
as it all starts over again
like dylan's wheel that's still in spin
without a god on any side
still, you want another answer
so i guess maybe we could say
that the one who pulls the trigger,
fires the gun or drops the bomb is
the god who makes that final choice
so, yeah, god's sort of on one side
if that's just what you need to hear
but know that god's still on the wheel
and might well be the next one gone
your dead 'hero' no more the god
... it ain't religion, ma'am, it's war,
a god wouldn't have none of it
by Contributing Poet John Buquoi Copyright © 2015
VWP 2016 First published in VietnamVullDisclosure.org 2015
october 1963 tự do street, sàigòn
old waiters at l'imperial
sprint from the open air cafe,
racing a pursuing billow
of hot shrapnel steel, smoke and fire
from mr. charlie's tossed grenade,
in the cartoonish fashion of
wile e. coyote, and barefoot,
their plastic flip-flops left behind
after the evening's close call,
their memories fresh blistered, scarred
from the experience of fire,
they return to their wait stations
for the next morning's all day shift
wearing new bata tennis shoes,
insurance against second place
in any next footrace with death
by Contributing Poet John Buquoi Copyright © 2016
VWP 2016 First published in VietnamWarPoetry.com
tropic lightning
củ chi base
ankle deep in the mud
of a malarial peanut farm
scraped from ancient jungle
now rome plowed clear,
agent oranged,
poisoned, defoliated deep,
the division troops,
the 11-bravos, 'grunts'
are tented in fetid favelas
of rotting surplus canvas
from korea, world war two,
(now blue hazed in mary jane)
to endure beyond combat
the heat, the bugs, the rats,
the endless monsoon
and the most inelegant
mess chow mélange
slung to steel trays
by much better fed,
sloven, sweat-soaked
sous chefs du jour
in the commanding
general's mess
nestled in officer country's
manicured, suburban
emerald otherworld
of putting green lawns
and air conditioned luxury
command staff trailers,
privacy fenced and gated,
guarded against the envy
and anger of their own troops,
obsequious white smocked
young soldiers bow and serve
at white linened tables,
the lobster, shrimp,
filet mignon, prime rib,
and cabernet, then light cigars
for the general and his staff,
fresh from the social stress
and bourboned branch
of the pre-meal open bar
the general's waitstaff,
chosen from among
his troops in the field
found to have performed
meritoriously and
deemed most worthy
of his boon reward assigned
as favored staff garçons,
replace departed predecessors,
out of favor late unworthies,
who have displeased,
or just not measured up
to command expectations
as proper table servants
and been banished back,
re-condemned to combat units
where their punishment,
up to and including
even death itself,
will be delivered by
the unhampered enemy
by Contributing Poet John Buquoi Copyright © 2016
VWP 2016 First published in VietnamWarPoetry.com
mindfulness
xuân loc, viet nam 1969
at the orphanage
beneath the rubber trees
the monks cook rice
for hungry children
in huge flat pans,
eighty kilos per meal,
three times a day
softly, absent reproof
or bitterness,
they whisper
that just as fragrant rice
multiplies in volume
as it cooks
over the open flame
so, too, the orphanage
swells in numbers
of orphaned children
ever since the americans
came to help their friends
and set the land
so much to fire
by Contributing Poet John Buquoi Copyright © 2015
VWP 2016 First published in VietnamFullDisclosure.org 2015
sàigòn samarra
he was a frightened priest, they said,
afraid to sleep in his own bed
terrified that death might find him
whenever counter batteries
found rocket launchers near his home
so he fled away to sàigòn
where he begged refuge from a friend
in a shed on the villa grounds,
cool in the shade of bird rich trees
across the alley from our house
the 'may offensive' underway,
that night katyushas stormed sàigòn
screaming into our neighborhood,
death's own double clapping harpies
whose lightning shattered walls and bounced
us from our bed onto the floor
hot steel scythe-shredding tamarinds,
mangoes and nurseries of birds
from the trees close beside the house
where sometimes we could dream of peace
morning light, we crossed the alley
onto the villa grounds to see
how danger close the night's barrage
and found only cold flame charred steel
powdered in blast burst concrete dust
where the priest's final night was spent,
the twisted frame of his deathbed,
bits of his meat and bone around
a morning feast for buddha birds
from the ashes of his karma
by Contributing Poet John Buquoi Copyright © 2016
VWP 2016 First published in VietnamWarPoetry.com
mandala
so tell me, will you, you've been there,
to war, i mean, that war, your war
i think, i know you know the score
i want your help to understand
this conundrum, unsolved puzzle
how it is god selects his side,
his team, and how he picks the ones
who get to say 'god's on our side',
and who's to live, and those to die
and who's the one, who stands opposed
on that side fighting without god
ma'am, i don't know a whole lot, but
i know there's one thing that i've learned
there ain't no god, at least not one
who picks or chooses who might live
or die and as for death itself,
it's always seemed to me to be
just the way it is, the dice rolled
or a spin of some fateful wheel,
however spun, or thrown the dice
but there's no god on either side
and, ma'am, as for the other one
the one you ask who isn't god,
one you think's on the other side
(you'd like to call him 'evil one')
well, if there's no such god to blame
or any one who chooses sides,
there's no need for another one
to be partnered to the other,
that missing one who isn’t there
then how is it i want to know
how choice is made who lives or dies
when the shooting starts there must be
some god who makes that election
there must be one who names the names
i mean, you know, the heroes, those
who'll die today, surely they're picked,
selected for hero's honor
i don't think that's just left to chance
well, death's no hero's honor, ma'am
those dead men, you say are heroes,
but i don't think so, nor did they,
no more than those forgotten ones,
those dead, too, on the other side
it's all the same, ma'am, all the same
they're all just dead, both sides, you see
no need of gods in war's death game
and yeah, what i know, for sure, ma'am,
is that those only ones who die,
i think that's what you asked about,
the special way they're picked, or not,
well, there's no god makes those calls
they’re just those time place fated ones,
they're right where they're supposed to be,
imagined on some disc of sand
so like this milky ring of stars,
when their last day comes to an end
and like the sand they're blown away
discarded dust along the wind
as it all starts over again
like dylan's wheel that's still in spin
without a god on any side
still, you want another answer
so i guess maybe we could say
that the one who pulls the trigger,
fires the gun or drops the bomb is
the god who makes that final choice
so, yeah, god's sort of on one side
if that's just what you need to hear
but know that god's still on the wheel
and might well be the next one gone
your dead 'hero' no more the god
... it ain't religion, ma'am, it's war,
a god wouldn't have none of it
by Contributing Poet John Buquoi Copyright © 2015
VWP 2016 First published in VietnamVullDisclosure.org 2015
Bio: John Buquoi was trained as a Vietnamese linguist, spent seven years in Vietnam
in the military and as a civilian.
He has recently published snapshots from the edge of a war,
a volume of retrospective poems which echo that experience
in a series of reflective narrative vignettes which one critic has called,
"... first-rate in every respect, resonating on all levels--
emotional, personal, factual, historical, literary ..."
His work has been published on VietnamFullDisclosure.org
and accepted for publication in the journal, War, Literature & the Arts.
in the military and as a civilian.
He has recently published snapshots from the edge of a war,
a volume of retrospective poems which echo that experience
in a series of reflective narrative vignettes which one critic has called,
"... first-rate in every respect, resonating on all levels--
emotional, personal, factual, historical, literary ..."
His work has been published on VietnamFullDisclosure.org
and accepted for publication in the journal, War, Literature & the Arts.
Except where otherwise attributed, all pages & content herein
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