As Chaplain's assitants, you
were just fucking around, war was done happening
while Eisenhower ran oval laps.
In desert heat, the same year
running drills
getting on and off boats
weekend driving up the coast,
seeing Navy sailors in bars, so
you "punched those sons of bitches across the mouth",
and ran down freedom beaches
on eclipsing California coastline
yelling "Eureka!"
thinking you'd found treasure
in the tides,
motorcycles,
motor pools,
shooting orange foam darts
at chapel ceilings
and learning to relish that peace,
(pēs) – (noun) (1) the period between war or other hostilities,
(2) just fucking around, when war isn't happening.
Author notes
This poem won the Bradley University American Academy of Poets Prize
A contest entry
- Contest for free verse poems ( prewrites allowed... without medals) by Manoj Sanyal.
370 points, ended April 23, 2008, 15 entries
Honorable mention
• next poem in this contest, remove from contest
Please tell me what you think
Comments
-
This is anguished outburst and penned well.
Thanks for participation.
Good luck
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