1965
It was 1965.
I dropped out of college.
I was 1-A.
So the letter came.
It was a greeting card from Uncle Sam.
“Greetings,” it said.
So I went to Whitehall Street.
It was 5 AM.
It was dark.
It was drizzling.
It was dreary.
I was scared shit.
But I had the letter from Dr. Bearman.
It said I had albuminuria.
I don’t know why Dr. Bearman thought that would get me out.
But it was all I had.
I recognized a few from high school.
Goldstein was there.
Weintraub was there.
Grazioli was there.
But he wasn’t drafted.
He was there to join the Marines.
I had a clipboard.
I went from line to line.
I went from station to station.
I passed everything.
But I had my letter which I hadn’t shown yet.
I didn’t know which doctor to show it to.
Wasn’t there a kidney doctor to show it to?
I was running out of doctors.
The last station was the eye exam.
“Take off your glasses and read the last line,” the sergeant said.
I knew he was a sergeant.
I had seen sergeants in movies.
I recognized the stripes.
I took off my glasses.
I couldn’t see the last line.
I couldn’t see the chart.
I could barely see the wall.
“I can’t read it,” I said.
“Give me those glasses,” the sergeant said.
I gave him my glasses.
He put them under some kind of microscope.
He shook his head.
He wrote “Z” next to my right eye.
He wrote “Z” next to my left eye.
“What does “Z” mean?” I asked.
“It means you’re Zeed out,” he said.
He gave me my clipboard.
“You’re 4-F. You’re fucking blind,” he said.
“Thank you,” I said.
So I didn’t need Dr. Bearman’s letter.
So I didn’t need albuminuria.
So I didn’t need a kidney doctor.
I didn’t need to go to Canada.
So I just needed my eyes.
So I thanked my father for his Z eyes.
So I thanked my grandfather for his Z eyes.
So I thanked my great-grandfather for his Z eyes.
So I thanked my lucky Z stars.
by Contributing Poet J. R. Solonche Copyright © 2026
VWP 2026 First published in J. R. Solanche, 1965 (Shanti Arts) 2026.
Vietnam War Memorial
This laceration in the earth
where napalm
has fallen and burned it,
scorched it to char.
This unclosing wound
enclosing us in our mass grave,
slowly, slowly, so slowly.
This lipstick stain of this war’s black kiss.
by Contributing Poet J. R. Solonche Copyright © 2026
VWP 2026 First published in VietnamWarPoetry.com
Mike's Painting and Paper Hanging
While stripping paper from the walls,
he told me stories of the war in Vietnam,
how the VC would bring tanks out of the jungle
and onto the beach when the sea was calm
and smooth as glass, then fire tank shells
along the surface toward his ship the way
boys skip flat stones across a pond, of how
one day he was looking just the right way
to see a column of black smoke rising
from their sister ship, Hey, they’re not supposed
to clean their stacks in broad daylight like that,
and then realized a tank shell had hit it
after having missed his own, how at night,
on after lookout, alone with nothing to do there
in the dark, he’d write poetry, and recited one
that began, Listen and hear a tale of woe,
which went on like some old ballad of war,
full of words like heroes, honor, and hell,
like something out of The Charge of the Light Brigade,
only not anywhere as good, but I liked the music it made,
the ocean-shaking grunt of it, the gurgling groan
of an engine, the words exploding in his mouth.
by Contributing Poet J. R. Solonche Copyright © 2026
VWP 2026 First published in VietnamWarPoetry.com
It was 1965.
I dropped out of college.
I was 1-A.
So the letter came.
It was a greeting card from Uncle Sam.
“Greetings,” it said.
So I went to Whitehall Street.
It was 5 AM.
It was dark.
It was drizzling.
It was dreary.
I was scared shit.
But I had the letter from Dr. Bearman.
It said I had albuminuria.
I don’t know why Dr. Bearman thought that would get me out.
But it was all I had.
I recognized a few from high school.
Goldstein was there.
Weintraub was there.
Grazioli was there.
But he wasn’t drafted.
He was there to join the Marines.
I had a clipboard.
I went from line to line.
I went from station to station.
I passed everything.
But I had my letter which I hadn’t shown yet.
I didn’t know which doctor to show it to.
Wasn’t there a kidney doctor to show it to?
I was running out of doctors.
The last station was the eye exam.
“Take off your glasses and read the last line,” the sergeant said.
I knew he was a sergeant.
I had seen sergeants in movies.
I recognized the stripes.
I took off my glasses.
I couldn’t see the last line.
I couldn’t see the chart.
I could barely see the wall.
“I can’t read it,” I said.
“Give me those glasses,” the sergeant said.
I gave him my glasses.
He put them under some kind of microscope.
He shook his head.
He wrote “Z” next to my right eye.
He wrote “Z” next to my left eye.
“What does “Z” mean?” I asked.
“It means you’re Zeed out,” he said.
He gave me my clipboard.
“You’re 4-F. You’re fucking blind,” he said.
“Thank you,” I said.
So I didn’t need Dr. Bearman’s letter.
So I didn’t need albuminuria.
So I didn’t need a kidney doctor.
I didn’t need to go to Canada.
So I just needed my eyes.
So I thanked my father for his Z eyes.
So I thanked my grandfather for his Z eyes.
So I thanked my great-grandfather for his Z eyes.
So I thanked my lucky Z stars.
by Contributing Poet J. R. Solonche Copyright © 2026
VWP 2026 First published in J. R. Solanche, 1965 (Shanti Arts) 2026.
Vietnam War Memorial
This laceration in the earth
where napalm
has fallen and burned it,
scorched it to char.
This unclosing wound
enclosing us in our mass grave,
slowly, slowly, so slowly.
This lipstick stain of this war’s black kiss.
by Contributing Poet J. R. Solonche Copyright © 2026
VWP 2026 First published in VietnamWarPoetry.com
Mike's Painting and Paper Hanging
While stripping paper from the walls,
he told me stories of the war in Vietnam,
how the VC would bring tanks out of the jungle
and onto the beach when the sea was calm
and smooth as glass, then fire tank shells
along the surface toward his ship the way
boys skip flat stones across a pond, of how
one day he was looking just the right way
to see a column of black smoke rising
from their sister ship, Hey, they’re not supposed
to clean their stacks in broad daylight like that,
and then realized a tank shell had hit it
after having missed his own, how at night,
on after lookout, alone with nothing to do there
in the dark, he’d write poetry, and recited one
that began, Listen and hear a tale of woe,
which went on like some old ballad of war,
full of words like heroes, honor, and hell,
like something out of The Charge of the Light Brigade,
only not anywhere as good, but I liked the music it made,
the ocean-shaking grunt of it, the gurgling groan
of an engine, the words exploding in his mouth.
by Contributing Poet J. R. Solonche Copyright © 2026
VWP 2026 First published in VietnamWarPoetry.com
Bio: J. R. Solonche Nominated for the Eric Hoffer Book Award, twice for the National Book Award and three times
for the Pulitzer Prize, J.R. Solonche is the author of more than 50 books of poetry and coauthor
of another. He lives in the Hudson Valley.
for the Pulitzer Prize, J.R. Solonche is the author of more than 50 books of poetry and coauthor
of another. He lives in the Hudson Valley.
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