Cloud-muffled Moon ((A Short Poetic Prose War Tale) (a true account while in Vietnam, 1971))

The heavily armed Vietnamese village was somewhat dug in, not far

       from our base camp and the South China Sea—

It was a cloud-muffled moon evening that slightly lit the night sky;

I had snuck in—a hundred rifles, a few machineguns waiting,

       should I show my  Caucasian Irish face—;  I’d leave in the Morning: I had just snuck in for the fun of it, to see if I could, and

       have a night of it, to perk up my adrenaline. I could have been

Court Marshaled, I suppose, it was against all the rules.

Not a wise decision—yet silently I jumped the high barbwire fence

It all mattered on timing.

The Vietcong ruled the village by night, the South Vietnamese Army

       by day…it was always that way.

This evening the Vietcong were everywhere—

However, this was not the real danger, so I felt, it was the guard

        towers in the morning I’d have to overcome—

Manned by our friendly Vietnamese, not the enemy, but they could

       and most likely would, mistake me as an enemy, an infiltrator

       armed to kill—or shoot me just for a thrill—it was not

       uncommon; actually they’d simply be lost to think otherwise.

I wanted to party, in the off-limit village, find a girl, and have a

       whirl.

And I did, I did just that, drank, and ate some dog-meat soup and

       drank until I passed out…

The ground was soft in the morning dew, pressing up against the

       high barbwire fence—at the cue of the moon disappearing: the

       grey morning lifting; hence, I reached to the edge of the top:

“Don’t move,” my mind whispered, and I froze in one spot, half bent

       over the prickly fence—

I must have blended into the moment, the guard’s eye, in the tower

       nearby, not irritated with my slow moving sequences, did not

       catch my planning—thus, I rolled over the prickly top of the   

       fence, and once I landed on the soft ground, I left no shadow as

       daylight broke…

I must have been in those far-off days, a cat with nine lives, or else

       God was saving me for something else…!

#3804 (April 2 & 3, 2013) 

Losing Sight (The Little Bird)

This week I felt like weeping when a big bird snatched up a Baby bird, for whatever purpose, out of my garden.

It’s natural I suppose, like the cry of an infant. There was no

Call from other birds, of danger—hidden in the Garden.

In life I can praise so many things. The loss of the baby bird

Didn’t feel right to me—I could have saved him, or perhaps she.

Why didn’t I? I was too busy taking a movie: in my delight, I lost sight, of a predator nearby.

Note: Inspired by the writings of Rumi, with a little influence on stanza structure.  The author would like to express, one can easily lose in his or her daily life, sight of their relationship with Christ, just as easily as taking your eyes off the bird.  #3993 (3-29-2013)

Time’s Running Out

Friend, it’s not time to give up hope of the Rapture.

We may have to live life without it though.

Carl Sagan thinks flying saucers will carry us away.

The old man at the old folks farm, puts the King of Hearts

Down, spits in the spittoon, nicotine stains his fingers

Babies are being born; he knows he’s run his course…!

The yellow eyes of wolves in the forest reminds us a lot

About the deficiency of mercy; after each funeral we feel

A little less safe, why? We’ll soon meet our maker.

Friend, Christ has done away with original sin—it’s called:

‘Through Baptism’: yet we are still stuck here between

Heaven and Hell, we got to do our work and live like Christians!

#3778 (2-27-2013) 

The Cataratas of Iguazú (The Great Falls of Brazil)

I tell you God’s footprint—called Iguaçu is beautiful, —

It’s as if the waters of the falls were blessed…

As if God, Himself ten-thousand years ago made a

Promise—and kept it, —that it would never be less!...

They cast the most jubilant light to the eye—to the

Sky!  Each drop of water, every drop of water:

Some wild, some calm, all longing to reach somewhere

Someone: to outdo the other, as they sing and hum,

Beat like drums, slap your face, and drench your body,

Blind your eyes at times… (Don’t stand too close!)

So many colors at Iguaçu, so many rainbows too:

They never, never, —Ever, really end! . . .

 #3734 (3-11-2013) /For; Dra. Gladys Margot Miguel Villar

Days with Sun and Rain (Haiti—1986)

Blue-Hill, The tonal (2011)/the author was there in 1986

The sun goes down in the dusty July nights, cools the earth

       quite nice, in the high and low lands of Haiti.

The sun when it’s provoking goes round and round:

       compelling, intoxicating with its massive heat and fire.

It moves swiftly through the forest foliage, up the mountain

       pathways driven into villages….

The sun is likened to a bronze devil walking the edge of this

       part of the world— doubled up with suffocating sulphur—

Then it rains (not often but it rains)!

And when it does, you can see the whole moon drenched:

       the earth is like a shadowy pond; in parts, a muddy dried

       up riverbed.

No: 3034 ((Written out in poetic form 8-28-2011; revised 4-22-2013) (from 1986-notes when the author was in Haiti on a Missions trip for two weeks)) Photo above, Past. Naason Mulatre, the author’s dear friend for 26-years.