top

Sometimes, poems just wind up in your spam mail, or on a scrap of paper attached to the bottom of your shoe. here's one for the dVersepoets:

DIRTY BLONDE SLUT

“Dirty blond slut stripping
In a room in pantyhose”

(These spam mails are like
“found” poetry.)

“Well, well,” he said,
with a sigh, dismissing,
as I then saw some married
very comfortably.
“There are three more living with us
(Is that) the cause of their misfortunes?”

Whether he believed
I was a large sheet of paper,
Folded small, and quite covered
With long –
(Well, it would be if you bought
our Viagra).

“All very right indeed,” said my aunt,
Encouragingly.
Mrs. or (a Miss) or two upon my road.
And when we parted,
I said, “I’m very.”
(Well, you know what I mean,
our pharmaceuticals
will make you very, very.)

4:28 PM [1 comment]

HORTICULTURE HAIKU

Pretty rock gardens
So popular in Japan
No damn grass to mow.

HOUSEKEEPING HAIKU

Many more dead ants
Cover my table, they rain
Down, a summer storm.

NEWS HAIKUS

Good news story ledes
are no longer than a breath
a Zen news haiku.

The questions are old
I await the brasshole’s call
And his blank reply.

Deadline is looming
The telephone remains mute
Desk says, “Killing me.”

“Why don’t you write good
News?” the Marine flack asks.
When you are, we will.

BAWLING FOR COLUMBINE

“From my cold dead hands,”
Moses spoke, raising his gun,
the angels shuddered.

FOR THE dVERSEPOETS www.dVersepoets.com
3:34 PM [4 comments]

BIG BUT BENIGN

It’s interesting to watch
the blood and pus drip
into the plastic bottle,
the “grenade” pinned
to my chest like some
live purple heart,
attached to a tube that wraps
over my shoulder and into a hole
in my back, draining the cavity
where the cyst existed.
It was huge but harmless,
my doctor declared.
It had been there for years
attached to the spine like cement.
It took him more than three hours
to carefully gut it out.
It was a part of me
but, as the Buddha’d say,
like so much in life,
totally unnecessary,
extra baggage just growing
there until, concerned, my love
pushed me to see the doctor,
threatening to start calling me Quasimodo.

“Big but benign,”
the doctor diagnosed.
Of course,
why would I want
to harm myself?

For the dVerse Poets. Check them out at www.dVersepoets.com.
10:07 PM [5 comments]

We're supposed to do a poem with onomatopeias. I think this one does in a way:

THE GIRL WITH JIM IN THE LOFT

Someone must really tell her
just how loud she is.
It is disturbing to hear her moans
drown out the music.
Anyway, I’m alone
and it isn’t fair
to add a solo hard-on
to other injuries.

Moan, oh moan, oh moan
deeper, moan, oh moan
harder, moan, oh moan
oh deeper, oh, oh
ram it! Oh Jam it! Oh, Yes!
Oh Moan! Oh slam it!
Oh, Cram it! Oh
God! Jesus! Oh, OH! OH!
MOAN! OH1 GOD! OH! JESUS!
GOD JESUS GOD OH MOAN OH GOD!
OH DEEPER OH FASTER! OH GOD OH JSEUS
OH YES! OH YES! OH YES! OHGOD! OH GOD!
OH GODOHGODOHGODOHGODOHGOD
OHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!

Was it good for you?

Check out the dversepoets.com.

8:52 PM [6 comments]

I don't have a new New Year's poem for 2012. It's been too crazy to put it all in perspective and will have to wait for a time when the chaos disapates -- just a little. Until then, here's one of my favorites from another New Year, back in 2000, when the worst worry we had was whether the Y2K warnings were worth worrying about.

The Last Sunset of the 20th Century

I watched the sun set on the last day
Of the century behind an anvil-shaped cloud
Over the East China Sea,
And wondered if that meant something.
That dark cloud, dampening the brilliant yellows
And oranges that usually trumpet the sunset’s finale;
A huge black thing looming over
This entry into the new millenium –
Closing the door on the last century,
Scarred by so much war and devastation.
What does the black anvil mean?
A cloud over our future?
A disturbing darkness, impenetrable
By even the power of the sun?
Or an anvil on which to beat swords into plowshares
At last, the century of wars surrendering
To a time of peace?

Or, perhaps it means nothing.
Like the random numbering of the years.
After all, it’s the year 5760 by the Hebrew calendar,
Or close to the Year of the dragon
In the 17th year of the 78th cycle of the Chinese calendar,
Or 1378 if Allah is your god.
What to make of the Millenium hype?
The Y2K scare?
As I write this, the fireworks are over in Christchurch and Sydney
And the lights are still on.

Later on, my love and I
Will wander outside to watch the fireworks from Katsuren
As Okinawa ushers the New Year in –
The 12th year of the Heisei Era, I think.
Then we’ll sip some champagne
And abed we’ll celebrate our own
Historic benchmark.
It’s the start of the 12th year of our togetherness
Now, that’s something to cheer.

David Allen
Cabin Serendip, Okinawa
Dec. 31, 1999 (11:06 p.m.)

Footnote: Sunday will mark the 23rd anniversary of our togetherness. That is certainly something to celebrate!

Check out the New Years' jottings of the dVersepoets at: www.dversepoets.com.
7:14 PM [3 comments]

I made up a lot of songs for my kids and grandkids over the years. While this one's not exactly a lullabye, it's one of my favorites, It was made up for my Okinawan grandson, Kairu, who hated to go to sleep:

KAI’S ANTISLEEP SONG

I don’t like to sleep
You can’t make me sleep
I’m not gonna sleep no more
You can pick me up
And walk me around
Read me a book
And make cooing sounds
But I’m not gonna sleep no more.

I don’t like to sleep
You can’t make me sleep
I’m not gonna sleep no more
You can strap me in a car
And drive me around
Sit me on your knee
And rock me up and down
But I’m not gonna sleep no more.

I don’t like to sleep
You can’t make me sleep
I’m not gonna sleep no more
You can give me a bath
And wash my hair
Ignore my cries
Pretend I’m not there
But I’m not gonna sleep no more.

6:36 PM [11 comments]

Tonight Claudia opened the Bar writing about her discovering Charles Bukowski. He's one of my faves, as the poems below prove:

FLEABAG MOTEL

Bukowski would have loved this place
a real fleabag motel
no fridge
no ice,
some cigarette-burned
ancient RCA TV
bolted to a low bureau,
strips of pressed wood
peeled off,
sits next to a Gideon Bible;
lamps tilt at weird angles,
chairs of ripped fake leather,
in worse shape than Salvation
Army retreads;
grey-white walls marred
with black boot heel marks
near the door;
dirty handprints
smudge the wall near the bed;
a bullet hole marks the wall
just above the TV;
the plastic covers of the electrical sockets
are cracked, split;
brown water stains the gray ceiling tiles.
yeah, this is a Buk place,
a real roach motel.
a six pack, maybe something harder,
would make it habitable.
out back, on the other side of the parking lot,
the steady clickityclack and haunting whistle
of a freight train as it passes a crossing
makes this dump almost romantic.
well, at least the sheets are clean.
and anyway,
all I need is a place to sleep
and shower
and shit.
it’s perfect
for all that.

FLEABAG II

10:40 p.m.
Just getting settled
for bed.
Phone rings
Hello?
“Hello, I need you to come
to the front desk.”
Indian accent.
Why?
“You need to fill out
some papers.”
What?
“For the police.”
What?
“You need to come here,
Something about your neighbor in 234.”
What?
“I don’t know, you need to come down here
right away.”
All right.

I hang up,
confused,
put my shirt on,
grab my wallet and keys –
Whoa!
Maybe that’s a bad move.
Some mugger might be waiting
just outside the door.
But I might need an ID.
I take out my money, credit cards,
slip them under the mattress.
(Strange, I’d never think of doing that in Okinawa.
But in this rundown Indiana fleabag motel with
bullet holes and bootheels marking the walls,
I worry.)

Maybe the call was a hoax.
A ploy to get me to open the door.
Wait, what if it’s really the cops
and they need my contacts in this burg?
Maybe I should take my address book.
Nah, if they need them I’ll just go back to the room.

I open my door,
step out,
no one around except
the trash-fed stray
cat that hangs around the stairs.
She meows loudly,
scurries away.
I descend the cracked concrete stairs,
glance at my rented car.
No stranger there;
bright lights allow
no shadowed lairs.
I round the corner
to the front office.Door’s locked.
I spot a woman inside
waving me to a security window,
like a self-serve gas station at night.
I rap on the window
and a Paki-Indian-Bangledeshi
man walks up.
“Can I help you?”
Yeah, what do you want?
“What do YOU want?”
"I dunno, someone called me,
told me to come down here
and fill out some papers."
“Sorry, no one called.”
"Someone did."
“Not from here, my friend.”
"But someone said there was a complaint
from room 234."
“I am sorry, my friend, but no one called.”
"No call?"
“Someone did the
same thing yesterday.
Sorry.”

I go back to the
$25 a night room,
with mold in the shower
and crusting the
air conditioner.

I am convinced the mugger
had positioned himself
to strike when I return.
But I am greeted only
by stray cat
in the open garbage bin.
Maybe he’s already in my room;
maybe he slipped in there
while I was gone and
he’s cleaned me out.
I walk around the corner
to the strairway,
stare at the door to 234 --
no sign of life.
I open my door.
Silence.
No one here,
nothing missing,
just one big
fucking pain in
the ass practical joke.

I’ve been robbed of nothing
except my sleep.

Check out the www.dVersepoets.com.

7:04 PM [5 comments]

Long-Term Care Options

Nursing home alternatives would be spelled out when hospitals discharge patients

by: David Allen | from: AARP Bulletin | December 1, 2011

After her husband spent 14 months in a nursing home, Naomi Clark had enough. Paralyzed on his left side from a stroke, Douglas Clark was not getting the care she felt he needed.

"I was there most of the time providing 75 percent of the work," Naomi, 76, said, patting her husband's right foot as he dozed in their Muncie home.

"I asked them why they couldn't do more and was told they didn't have enough help for all the patients. So I told them to get the paperwork started. I was taking him home."

Now, three years later, Clark realizes she could have started home care sooner had she known about other options such as the in-home care from a service that provides an aide for six hours each day.

Next year the Indiana General Assembly will consider a bill that would help people like the Clarks better understand options for long-term carefor their loved ones.

The legislation would require hospitals to provide lists and contact information about nearby long-term care choices, including alternatives to nursing homes, when patients are discharged.

A case manager from a local Area Agency on Aging (AAA) would provide similar information during preadmission screening for nursing homes; nursing home personnel would be required to supply the information shortly after a person is admitted.

In addition, patients or their caregivers would be eligible to receive a free assessment, conducted by a case manager from one of Indiana's 16 nonprofit AAA offices, about the patient's ability to live in the "least restrictive environment."

"Making these decisions may be among the hardest Hoosiers will ever face," said Sen. Vaneta Becker, R-Evansville, the bill's author. "This legislation may just prevent some institutionalization of patients who really don't need it."

An AARP Public Policy Institute report (pdf) issued in September found that Indiana ranked 47th out of the 50 states and the District of Columbia for long-term services and supports for older adults and people with disabilities and family caregivers. The analysis also said the average annual cost of care in an Indiana nursing home is $75,600, but, in comparison, it costs $29,640 a year for 30 hours of home health care per week.

"We pay all this money in Medicaid funding to keep people in long-term care facilities when it would be less expensive to keep them at home," said Vickie Beeson, owner of Senior Helpers, a home-care services business in Greenfield.

For years, AARP has advocated shifting Medicaid long-term care funds away from nursing homes and into home- and community-based services, for the cost savings and because most older people say they want to age at home, not in an institution.

"We need to level the playing field, putting long-term home- and community-based care on an equal footing with nursing facilities," said Orion Bell IV, president of CICOA Aging & In-Home Solutions, the AAA in central Indiana.

Hoosiers prefer care at home

A 2010 survey of AARP members in Indiana found that 83 percent would prefer to receive long-term care at home.

Many people do not plan for long-term care until something — such as a fall — forces them to make a choice.

"Often such decisions are made during a crisis, and the family has little time to decide on the kind of care needed after discharge from the hospital," said Paul Chase, AARP Indiana associate director for public policy.

That's what Naomi Clark faced when her husband, now 78, had two strokes in 2007.

"I was in a fog. I didn't know what to do."

Becker's bill was passed by the Senate in the 2011 legislative session but was not considered by the House. She predicted quick action in the 2012 General Assembly.

David Allen is a writer living in Chesterfield, Ind.
8:45 PM [comment]

That is kinda what the dVersepoets are asking tonight. How the hell would I know? I just write.

POEMS FOUND ON A SCRAP OF PAPER IN MY WALLET

Some day
I'll move on
Again.
I'm a restless soul
Looking for something
I can't name,
Never satisfied
With who I've become,
Wanting badly
To be something else.
Are our journeys
Ever really over?

Someone once told me
Poetry should be obscure
Poets should shroud
Their meanings, their messages
In abstracts
Leaving clues
To be unlocked
At the readers' leisure.
That's not for me
I want my meanings to be clear
The message is mine
Not what you
Have twisted it to mean.

Dissatisfied
With the route
The poem was taking
He signaled a turn
And went down that
Path less traveled.

Be sure to heck out www.dversepoets.com.
4:10 PM [5 comments]

The dVersepoets group is talking about poems about going wild, which is what journalists for Stars and Stripes always did when we had a meeting in Tokyo.

ROPPONGI

One night
while rambling
‘round Roppongi,
taking the tour of Tokyo,
not knowing when
to shun the shots
of sake pressed
upon me by my friends,
down Mogumbo’s
stumbling steps I slipped
and cracked my head.

Undaunted by
the bloody dent
I descended
to where some kind
soul staunched the flow
with a damp towel,
a ball cap,
and an ice cold brew.

The next morn,
co-workers, aghast
at the scabby slash
that showed through
thinning scalp,
gingerly iodined
and taped the
cut and wondered
why the night’s
itinerary included no trip
to the emergency room.

Why? I asked.
I thought the wet towel
and ball cap
and cold, cold beer
were medicine enough.

Check out other insanity at www.dVersepoets.com.

5:07 PM [2 comments]

Thanksgiving always marked the day we'd start preparing to put up the Christmas tree. Even on subtropical Okinawa, the U.S. military always flew in trees for the American servicemembers and their families -- and those civilians, like me, a journalist for Stars and Stripes.

But on one holiday season there was a shortage of live Christmas trees because a bug-infested shipment from Washington state had to be destroyed. Supplies of artificial trees on island bases were woefully inadequate and trees in Japanese stores were outrageously expensive.

So naturally, Ruth Ellen and I made up this carol while on our quest for a Christmas Pine in Paradise:

NO CHRISTMAS TREE

No Christmas trees, no Christmas tree
The bugs destroyed your branches.
Shipped here by sea for you and me
You never got your chances.
No blinking lights, no angel’s heights
No shiny star atop your spar
No Christmas tree, No Christmas tree
The bugs destroyed your branches.

No Christmas tree, no Christmas tree
Cut in the great Northwest.
The Customs men had you condemned
You couldn’t pass the test.
No falling needles everywhere
No Christmas tinsel in our hair
No Christmas tree, no Christmas tree
Cut in the great Northwest.

No Christmas tree, no Christmas tree,
Your plastic was so tempting.
But your high price turned veins to ice
We can’t afford that yen thing.
And so we’ll go sing “ho, ho, ho,”
To a beach that’s out of reach
We’ll watch the stars for Santa Claus,
And buy a Christmas wreath.”

Another one for the dVersepoets.com.

5:23 PM [8 comments]

Small Town Crime

One of the greatest things about being back in the States is reading my local free weekly paper every Thursday. The writing may be sophomoric, but at least someone cares enough about the little things that make up small town life -- library book sales, school notes, local town council meetings and, especially, the "Police Log."

The Police Log lets me know what's happening next door and down the street, from domestic distrubances to loose dogs. The best Police Log appears in the Yorktown Press, where nothing goes unnoticed and the cops and reporters apparently have a great sense of humor. For example (dates deleted):

Monday, 8:50 a.m., 9000 block of West Jackson, juvenile wouldn't go to school.

Thursday, 8 p.m., 8300 block of Smith Street, domestic problem; juvenile upset at mom taking pot away.

Saturday, 8:30 p.m., Broadway and Smith at the gazebo on criminal mischief. Kids have pretty much destroyed the gazebo and there is large amount of trash and cigarettes on the floor. Told the kids that they need to find somewhere else to hang out if this was the way they were going to treat town property.

Sunday, 7:30 a.m., 2300 block of South Market, 10-year-old fighting with babysitter.

Thursday, 4 p.m., Gas America, subject refusing to leave. Subject left after police arrived.

Sunday, 10:10 a.m., 2000 block of Southview, assist on report of woman screaming. Victim declined to file a report.

Wednesday, 12:30 a.m., Ind. 332, check welfare of subject walking along the higway. Subject said he was walking to Anderson to get away from his girlfriend.

Friday, 8:45 a.m., Chase Bank, 9213 W. Smith St., suspicious bag by the back door. Ended up being a bag of pine needles and leaves. Everything was fine.

5:03 PM [comment]

Somewhere Over the Pacific

It takes all kinds
crammed into economy class
on this massive 747
hurtling over the Pacific.
Sleep escapes us,
the evening meal and snacks
are devoured,
the feature films
have played out.
Assigned the window seat,
I have already made my two
seatmates stand
for my trips to the head.
And now,
bored,
sleepless,
I turn on the light
to read some Bukowski:

“lovely women walk by
with big hot hips
and warm buttocks and
tight hot everything
praying to be loved
and I don’t even exist.”

The pretty Filipina
sitting next to me,
her petite body comfortably fitting
into the middle seat,
always has a nice smile
when I pass my trash
to the aisle.
She takes note of me turning on
the light and
slips her glasses carefully
out of a leather case
and draws a book
from the seat pocket.
I take a glance,
the Bible;
she turns to Acts 3,4.
I wonder what that means.

The young Japanese man
in the aisle seat
turns on his light
and opens the latest
edition of Popular Science.
He reads about "What’s New.”

We are all stereotypes --
the dirty old man/poet,
the devout Catholic Filipina,
and the science-minded Japanese --
on our way
to someplace else,
coming from
over there.

Be sure to check out: http//www.dversepoets.com.
7:01 PM [3 comments]

(god) DAMMIT

Sitting here
Drinking coffee,
Scarfing down
A cheese Danish,
Waiting for the atheists
To arrive.
A movie night
With the Okinawa
Freethought Society,
Gonna watch a flick
About how religion’s
“The Root of All Evil,”
By Richard Dawkins.
But it’s already 8 p.m.
And no one’s
Showed up yet.
Goddamit!
Where the hell
Are they?

3:47 PM [4 comments]

A challenge for dVerse this week was to take a passage from a book and make it a poem. I cheated for Veterans Day.

Below is a story printed in Stars and Stripes on June 24, 1995, the 50th anniversary of the end of the Battle of Okinawa, the last and bloodiest battle in the Pacific during WWII. I had great editors who let the story run as I wrote it, with no changes. A few years later I turned it into a poem (posted after the story).

...................

Thousands of names reveal real toll of war

BY DAVID ALLEN
Stripes Okinawa Bureau Chief

CHATAN — "George Allen White Jr., Edward Lewis White, James White..."
Names. American Marines who died at Okinawa.

In April the names were Army. In May, they were sailors and Marines.

Every day since April 1, the 50th anniversary of the American invasion of Okinawa, the
names of the dead have been read aloud at All Souls Episcopal Church in Chatan.

"... James Preston White, James Thomas White, Jerry Wilson White..."

They are coming to the end. The last "Reading of the Names" was to be Friday night,
the date marking the end of the 83-day battle. This week, returning veterans, some with
their wives and grown children, sat in the back of the chapel. Silent. Respectful.

Thousands of names. About 12,281 Americans, 110,000 Japanese soldiers and Okinawan
conscripts. More than 150,000 Okinawa civilians.

"... Logan Willard White Jr., Thomas George White, Charles Edward Whiteman…”

Each name another soldier, sailor, aviator or civilian killed in the carnage that was the Battle of Okinawa.

Listen.

"... James Richard Whiteman, Mark Edward Whiteman, Forrest Whitt... Joseph Henry Whittaker..."

Whisper them softly. Fall into the rhythm. It's a Jewish Kaddish, a Buddhist chant, a Christian prayer.

Meditate.

"... Joseph Henry Whittaker, Marvin Jones Wiggins, William Robert Wiggins..."

Name after name. Each man some mother's son, some father's pride. This one was the
class clown; that one, the "brain."

Some had no family other than their platoon or their shipmates. That guy was a Gary,
Ind., steelworker before Pearl Harbor.
Remember Jimmy White, the mechanic at the corner garage?

And what of the names read before these?

"... David Bond, Earl Graham, Ernie Pyle ..."

There's one that's familiar. Pyle, a newspaperman. He wrote about these people, making sure he got their names right. Thousands of names for the readers back home. He died on an island off Okinawa, a Japanese machine-gunner reaping his name for the book of the fallen.

All-American names like Howard S. Schwartz, Leo O'Connor, Louis J. Odachowski, Kazuyoshi Inouye.

Some of the veterans are uneasy on the wooden church pews. It's hard to sit through.

"... Robert Wiggins, Gray Huntley Whitman, Hugh Whittington..."

On Friday their names will be revealed again on a striking monument at Mabuni Hill Peace Park, the site where the Japanese army made its final stand. The names of the dead from all the countries are
carved into 1,200 black granite walls.

"... Donald James Wilton, Kenneth William Wilkins, Jack Williard."

The American list is over for the day. The veterans are gone. Handkerchiefs pat at moist
eyes. Just a few people remain inside the chapel.

A new reader sits at the table. She begins to read.

"Sato Yoshiro, Yasuoka Tomohiko, Murakami Minoru..."

More names. These are Japanese. A college conscript from Tokyo. Maybe a farmer from Hokkaido. Soldiers in the emperor's army on Okinawa when the Americans came with their Typhoon of Steel.

"... Pak Man-do, Chou CheJiu, Song Yong ..."

Korean names. Forced laborers. Comfort women.

" .. Masahiro Kohagura, Mie Ota, Masao Ota, Kiyo Yamashiro..."

Okinawa names. Page after page. It sometimes takes 10 minutes for the American names, maybe 25 minutes for the Japanese. Twice as long for the Okinawans.

That name belonged to a fisherman from Kin. She was a mother from Itoman who huddled in the rear of a deep cave with her two children, shivering with fear as death came calling.

Grandfathers. Babies. Teenage girls pressed into service to tend the wounded. Whole families of names. Each a sad reminder of war's toll. Each name a testament to — what?

Life. This person once lived. "I existed. I had a name. I was somebody."

It's what this anniversary week is all about. Remembering.

.................................

The Names

George Allen White Jr.,
Edward Lewis White,
James White...

Names,
American Marines who died on Okinawa.
These names are read in June,
in April the names were soldiers,
May was for sailors.

Names
every day.

On April 1,
the reading of the names began
to commemorate
April fool's Day,
Easter Sunday,
Love Day,
the day the Americans invaded Okinawa,
struck back on Japan's home soil
in 1945.

Every day
for an hour at lunch
and in the evening
they came to read the names
at a church high on a hill
overlooking the invasion beaches.
A church with American and Japanese parishioners,
with a Japanese-Canadian priest,
who spent his war in a cold Saskatchewan internment camp.
Every day
they come to
All Souls Episcopal Church
to read the names of the souls
lost.

James Preston White,
James Thomas White,
Jerry Wilson White...

They are coming to the end.
Eighty-three days,
each day of the battle.
Returning veterans,
some with wives and grown children,
sit in the back of the chapel.
Silent.
Respectful.

Thousands of names.
12,281 Americans,
110,000 Japanese soldiers and Okinawan conscripts,
More than 150,000 Okinawa civilians.

Logan Willard White Jr.,
Thomas George White,
Charles Edward Whiteman...

Each name another soldier,
sailor, aviator, civilian
killed in the carnage that was
the Battle of Okinawa.

Listen -

James Richard Whiteman,
Mark Edward Whiteman,
Forrest Whitt,
Joseph Henry Whitaker...

Whisper them softly,
fall into the rhythm.
it's a Jewish Kaddish,
a Buddhist chant,
a Christian prayer.
Meditate.

Joseph Henry Whittaker,
Marvin Jones Wiggins,
William Robert Wiggins...

Name after name.
Each man some mother's son,
some father's pride.
this one the class clown;
that one the brain.

Some were orphans,
no family except their platoon
or shipmates.
That guy was a Gary steelworker,
and wasn't little Jimmy Whit
the mechanic down at the corner garage?

And what of the names read
on other days?

David Bond,
Earl Graham,
Ernie Pyle...

Wait, that one's familiar.
Pyle, a newspaperman,
he wrote about these people,
always making sure he got the names right.
Thousands of names for the readers back home,
'til a Japanese sniper reaped his name
for the book of the fallen.

All-American names
like,
Howard S. Shwartz,
Louis Odachowski,
Kazuyoshi Inouye.

Some of the veterans are uneasy
on the wooden church pews,
it's hard to sit through.
The reader's voice is hoarse,
so many names.

Robert Wiggins,
Gray Huntley Whitman,
Hugh Whitington...

So many names.
Names inscribed on a striking monument
on Mabuni Hill, where the Japanese Army
made its last stand.
The Cornerstones of Peace,
the names of the dead from all the countries,
carved into 1,200 black granite walls,
stretching to the sea
like the wings of doves.

Donald James Wilton,
Kenneth William Wilkins,
Jack Williard...

The American list is over for the day.
the veterans leave,
handkerchiefs pat at moist eyes.
Few remain in the chapel
as a new reader sits at the table.
She begins to read.

Sato Yoshiro,
Yasuoka Tomohiko,
Murakami Minoru...

More names.
These are Japanese,
a college conscript from Tokyo,
a farmer from Hokkaido.
soldiers in the Emperor's Army on Okinawa
when the Americans came with their
Typhoon of Steel.

Pak Man-do,
Chou Che-jiu,
Song Yong...

Korean names,
forced laborers,
comfort women.

Masahiro Kohagura,
Masao Ota,
Kiyo Yamashiro...

Okinawa names,
Page after page.
It sometimes takes 10 minutes
to read the day's American names,
maybe 25 minutes for the Japanese,
much longer for the Okinawans.
That name belonged to a fisherman from Kin.
And wasn't that the name of the mother from Itoman
who huddled in fear
at the rear of a deep cave with her two children,
shivering with fright as death came calling,
collecting his names?

Grandfathers,
babies,
teenage girls pressed into service to tend
the wounded.
Whole families of names,
each a sad reminder of War's toll;
each name a testament.
To what?

Life.
This person once lived.
"I existed,
I had a name,
I was somebody."

Read our names,
remember us.

Be sure to check out: http//www.dversepoets.com.

9:40 PM [6 comments]