Below are two original pieces of poetry that I created. I hope you enjoy.

Engagement Adoption

In a frenzy I ran trying hard not to trip. Jumped up on the wall, emptied my first clip. “Did I hit ‘em? Where are they? All I see is black.” “You wait for the flashes Sarge, then you attack.”

From behind me a tug on my pant leg. I stop. My Colonel is crouching behind on the rocks. “They’re coming on stretchers, on foot, at a crawl. What the hell are you doing with a rifle on the wall?”

“The expectant are there. Reassess and report, But don’t waste much time. We have little support.” Halfway down the line I come to a girl, But six years old with a head full of curls.

She looked up in fear with huge brown eyes, Her fate sinking in; She’s about to die. Peppered with holes, arms no longer a pair. Not just henna, all that red in her hair.

Scooped her up in my arms. No longer at war. Blindly walk to the TOC, open the door. I sit down in a corner, hold her close, sing a song. Dereliction of duty but I shouldn’t be long.

Her soft Dari murmuring, prayers for peace Come to a halt as she ceases to breathe. I embrace her another two minutes, or three.  Before giving her up. There’re patients to see.

Her body was gone with the sun’s morning rays, But I’ll see her face ‘til the end of my days. A daughter in five short minutes of strife And a death I will mourn for the rest of my life.

One Small Ray

The assault unforeseen in the dead of the night. Stumbling from tents into absence of sight. Explosions and flashes of fire returned with the lay of the FOB every soldier had learned were my only guide to my spot on the wall on this black moonless night at the threshold of Fall.

Aiming at flashes and firing blind. Accomplishing nothing but peace of mind ’til their mortars and gunfire seemed to slow down. We all began thinking we’ve turned it around and that this will be done by the light of the dawn. That’s what we thought ’til the floodlights came on.

Logistical issues and a late fiscal year meant that most of us didn’t have night vision gear, but we seemed to be winning and pushing them back, without even having to press the attack. So as gennies kicked on and we adjusted our eyes, what we beheld came as quite a surprise.

What we thought were a dozen were actually scores, rising from ditches like the sweat from our pores. The smart thing for them was to shoot out the lights but instead, cover blown, they turn to take flight. Many were killed even as they found cover but each one dropped was replaced by another.

Clip after clip I put bullets down range. Adrenaline feeding a euphoric rage. With no idea of the time that had passed, my slide locks back as I fire my last. I jump from my spot to get out of the way and race to the rear to begin my real day.

The instant I get there I strip off my gear, thankful that I’m not the last to appear. Triage is running, the OR is live, but most of the wounded have yet to arrive. We know that today we will all earn our wages, for a stone’s throw away the battle still rages.

My first patient in has been shot in the thigh. No tourniquet on, for the wound is too high. Arterial blood begins spraying my chest. This soldier has a few minutes at best. The exit wound is the size of my fist, so I stick my hand in all the way to my wrist.

I grip his femoral and pray it wont rip while my medics start lines and initiate drips. Twenty minutes later I can’t feel my hand. The other OR case isn’t going as planned. If I pull my hand out and put the other in, I may never find the artery again.

Just when I think I can’t take anymore the surgeon comes bursting in through the door. We wheel my guy out up the OR ramp and finally, oh finally, some forceps get clamped. Wounded arriving as the big hand ticks, I leave the OR and jump back in the mix.

Dawn starts to break and the battle winds down. The pleas of the dying become the only sound. We save quite a few but we lose even more and the ones that we lose we all feel to our core. At one point our triage was stacked wall to wall but we worked with a passion and treated them all.

Twelve hours later, a half a day passed since the last fatal bullet, the last ruinous blast. Strangers and friends under various flags all packaged upon stretchers and zipped into bags, are stuffed into med-evacs tight as a glove. They’re all headed home to the people they love.

Blood on my hands, on my face, in my hair. I look down at myself, it’s everywhere. Slowly, I make my way back toward my tent. Adrenaline ebbing, I’m pretty well spent. The spot on the wall where I’d stood that past night, now a big gaping hole from a blast in the fight.

I’m not gonna make it up off of this FOB. Hell, I’m gonna die here in Bala Murghab. I’ll get blown up. I’m gonna get shot, was all I could think as I reached my cot. It all overwhelmed me ‘fore I could sit down and all went black as I hit the ground.

I woke on the floor feeling sour and dour, gathered my clothes and walked to the shower. How to react to this kind of day? Drink water and drive on? No way, man, no way. Ashamed of all of my doubts and fears, I let the shower conceal my tears.

I’m twelve hours late for a vid-chat home. Comms are restored so I might as well go. I don’t wanna talk and I don’t wanna fight but my call was expected the previous night. My anger and panic, my fears, this past day. How to explain all this. What do I say?

The kids did this and the kids did that, it’s been raining all week and my hair went flat, we’re late on bills, I heard the funniest joke, my sister’s in town, the car is broke. Are you serious wife? Now really, who cares? I’m losing it here and you’re so unaware.

How do I talk of children with bombs while you sit there gossiping about other moms, and that even if I make it home with my life, the toll of this tour is a future that’s rife with the thoughts and the memories stuck in my brain. Baby, I feel like I’m going insane.

Tell me now, how do I tell of a day of fear and of pain; death; disarray? It’s a video chat and my face wont lie. Please, I hope that I don’t start to cry. I connect to the server and dial the code, while telling myself to try not to explode. A smile escapes at the face that I see. My eight year old daughter, a bundle of glee. All had felt lost and now all is forgotten. How could I have ever felt so rotten? How are you doing daddy? How was your day? It’s perfect now sweetheart. Perfect, I say.