Two for Michael
I. Last Jump
As Rangers are trained, Michael
jumped from the burning chopper,
missing whirlwind funnels of air,
folding into branches of a peaceful tree.
A path of light spread across the sky,
acknowledging the next leg of his tour,
while branches folded and snapped,
catapulting him over the edge.
Never found in search.
Petrified over time.
II. Volunteer
I kneel before the Wall, distressed, touching
engraved family names, preceded by rank.
Granite dust, the pride of spent ammo,
covers my fingertips.
Patriots lament soldiers.
Soldiers flashback to Charlie.
Tell me, have you found Michael?
His last jump is there in the pride of the Wall.
by Contributing Poet Robert J. Savino Copyright © 1993
VWP 2015 First published in Incoming by Island Poets 1993
Senescent Soldier
It's been more than forty years
since my cousin donated his pet
bobcat to the Staten Island Zoo,
enlisted in the Marine Corp,
shipped off to Da Nang
and left me to guard his prize
reptile collection, until I shipped
off to protect our shores.
It's been more than a few years now
since we caught up with one another
at the last funeral service in Florida,
though I heard he was recently spotted
in Franklin Square, long white hair
flowing from Saint Anthony's dome,
whitecaps cresting at his shoulder blades,
barefoot, sweeping the sidewalk
his mother once swept repetitively.
I go to speak with him.
He speaks to the ground,
outside that abandoned house,
closer to home.
by Contributing Poet Robert J. Savino Copyright © 2015
VWP 2015 First published in VietnamWarPoetry.com
Tired Eye of Imprisonment
for Michael ... gone but not forgotten
Sometimes, at night, I travel through dreams
to find Michael, in lands strange to me,
unable to distinguish body from soul;
sleep from awareness; life from death.
The dream repeats and repeats
through burning villages with biting
bugs transmitting malaria.
A tired-eyed woman from bungalow nights
appears to help me forget; but body bags
line up like Saturday morning trash.
A mother is killed.
Her child reaches toward me,
his charred arms still smoking.
I follow bloodprints dripping behind a ghost
who guides my way inside the perimeter.
Men, whole, try to control their screaming skull.
Others, in part, sit silently crying,
consoled by those unable to see.
Morning arrives. I am bewildered in bedsweat,
trying not to remember, unable to escape.
I can no longer live this hell
or salute the jungle's grim reaper.
I must find peace ... I must find Michael
in this tired eye of imprisonment.
by Contributing Poet Robert J. Savino Copyright © 1994
VWP 2015 First published in Incoming II by Island Poets 1994
& Toward Forgiveness by Writer's Ink Press 2011
I. Last Jump
As Rangers are trained, Michael
jumped from the burning chopper,
missing whirlwind funnels of air,
folding into branches of a peaceful tree.
A path of light spread across the sky,
acknowledging the next leg of his tour,
while branches folded and snapped,
catapulting him over the edge.
Never found in search.
Petrified over time.
II. Volunteer
I kneel before the Wall, distressed, touching
engraved family names, preceded by rank.
Granite dust, the pride of spent ammo,
covers my fingertips.
Patriots lament soldiers.
Soldiers flashback to Charlie.
Tell me, have you found Michael?
His last jump is there in the pride of the Wall.
by Contributing Poet Robert J. Savino Copyright © 1993
VWP 2015 First published in Incoming by Island Poets 1993
Senescent Soldier
It's been more than forty years
since my cousin donated his pet
bobcat to the Staten Island Zoo,
enlisted in the Marine Corp,
shipped off to Da Nang
and left me to guard his prize
reptile collection, until I shipped
off to protect our shores.
It's been more than a few years now
since we caught up with one another
at the last funeral service in Florida,
though I heard he was recently spotted
in Franklin Square, long white hair
flowing from Saint Anthony's dome,
whitecaps cresting at his shoulder blades,
barefoot, sweeping the sidewalk
his mother once swept repetitively.
I go to speak with him.
He speaks to the ground,
outside that abandoned house,
closer to home.
by Contributing Poet Robert J. Savino Copyright © 2015
VWP 2015 First published in VietnamWarPoetry.com
Tired Eye of Imprisonment
for Michael ... gone but not forgotten
Sometimes, at night, I travel through dreams
to find Michael, in lands strange to me,
unable to distinguish body from soul;
sleep from awareness; life from death.
The dream repeats and repeats
through burning villages with biting
bugs transmitting malaria.
A tired-eyed woman from bungalow nights
appears to help me forget; but body bags
line up like Saturday morning trash.
A mother is killed.
Her child reaches toward me,
his charred arms still smoking.
I follow bloodprints dripping behind a ghost
who guides my way inside the perimeter.
Men, whole, try to control their screaming skull.
Others, in part, sit silently crying,
consoled by those unable to see.
Morning arrives. I am bewildered in bedsweat,
trying not to remember, unable to escape.
I can no longer live this hell
or salute the jungle's grim reaper.
I must find peace ... I must find Michael
in this tired eye of imprisonment.
by Contributing Poet Robert J. Savino Copyright © 1994
VWP 2015 First published in Incoming II by Island Poets 1994
& Toward Forgiveness by Writer's Ink Press 2011
Bio: Robert J. Savino is a native Long Island poet, born on Whitman's Paumanok
and still fishes here, for words. But it was reading Blake in high school, when it began.
Blake's book of poetry became his guide as "the road to excess led to the palace of wisdom."
Everything became not as ordinary as it appeared and he began a life sentence
in a metaphoric mind. Robert is a Board Member of both the Long Island Poetry & Arts
Archival Center and recently appointed to the Board at the Walt Whitman Birthplace.
Robert is the winner of the 2008 Oberon Poetry Prize.
His books include fireballs of an illuminated scarecrow and his first full-length collection
Inside a Turtle Shell (a diverse journey of paths crossed, family & friends ... lost & found).
and still fishes here, for words. But it was reading Blake in high school, when it began.
Blake's book of poetry became his guide as "the road to excess led to the palace of wisdom."
Everything became not as ordinary as it appeared and he began a life sentence
in a metaphoric mind. Robert is a Board Member of both the Long Island Poetry & Arts
Archival Center and recently appointed to the Board at the Walt Whitman Birthplace.
Robert is the winner of the 2008 Oberon Poetry Prize.
His books include fireballs of an illuminated scarecrow and his first full-length collection
Inside a Turtle Shell (a diverse journey of paths crossed, family & friends ... lost & found).
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