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Poetry by Rod McQueary

instinct

--for a friend

the huey crew
made a routine hop
fast in and out
to get some local folks

the old viet
shuffles up
his flickering eyes
crooked gold-glint smile
tries to hide his fear

his last sin
fatal mistake
was to stumble
mar the polish on
a cold-eyed door-gunner's
spit shined boot

it was over in three
heart beats
they were up and gone
out of sight of the little
clearing
before
the old man's
struggling body parts
accepted death
and lay back
relaxed

White Wall

There ought to be another wall

White, bright, pretty

In a grove of trees

with picnic tables,

dance floor, and a

Viet Vet ragtime band.

A happy place where

Folks could go to laugh

and dance and argue

Football teams and candidates.

On the White Wall, there would be

A tremendous list of those

Who didn't die.

Behind each name,

a little heart... for a fulfilling marriage

a little happy face... for a

well-adjusted child,

a little diploma... for a valuable education,

a rewarding life.

Everyone is welcome here,

To cool drinks, rummy games,

To meet interesting people who

Talk, laugh, have fun, wander off.

Live.

To celebrate our survivorhood.

Not mourn our stolen martyrdom.

There are some who will
Have to be shown
The White Wall.
Taken to their own name
and told
"There, by God, is proof."

something--

For Life

If life were just one April day,
And I should wake, mid-afternoon,
To feel the sunshine on my shirt,
Warm scattered raindrops wet my cheek,
I'd marvel with my newborn eyes
At the beauty I had never seen.

If life should be one April day,
I'll not pine for a morning, lost,
Nor mourn some stolen martyrdom.

But hand in hand, my love and I
will lift one cup for fallen friends,
Then, our business done,
We'll laugh till wrinkles frame our eyes.

And in these final precious hours,
We'll celebrate the eveningtime.

for nothing

for paw-tay

a sunday evening phone call
to a brother-in-law
i ask about an old story
he half told          once

we took two dusters to the

cambodian border

or maybe farther

he said

to a fire base on top a hill
assigned to shoot
russian resupply choppers

they had been taking
rockets mortars
all day
all night          for two weeks

when the resupply hueys
would come in
these soldiers would
scream and jump
scream and jump
hang from the skids
the pilot would
wiggle and spin his ship
and shake them off
they would fall
and curse          and sob

i was there two days
a long time          he said

how many russian copters
did they get i ask

none

they

could never get

the clearance

to shoot

Rod McQueary, Ruby Valley, NV, contributed poems to Viet Nam Generation 4:1-2. He is a leading Cowboy Poet, and appears frequently at Gatherings and in John Dofflemyer's Dry Crik Review, PO 51, Lemon Cove, CA 93244. Dofflemyer will soon publish Blood Trail, a collection of McQueary and fellow cowboy vet Bill Jones, Jr.