Too Close To the Viet Nam Shore

Viet Nam Dead ahead.

Starboard turn, 90 degrees.

We fall in line taking our place

on the Tonkin Gulf gun line.

Guns blasting from ships ahead.

Gunsmoke fogs the view, 

Stretching long my very first hour, 

Standing my first battle station watch.

Watching our ship sailing too close

To the Viet Nam shore.

Oh! Look how beautiful it is 

Over there.

But

Bombs are blasting on the beach. 

Three boys running on the sand,

Until our five-inch gun guns them down.

Three boys' bodies splatter across the ground

Bleeding their deaths

Before my eyes,

Sucking out my sanity,

While the Captain's vanity 

Soars.

Scoring us a shiny killer's badge.

How can grown men be so blind

That they pay no mind

To the bare-naked fact

That children are dying at their hands?

Why can't they understand

We are really just killing each other;

"Those people" are our sister and brother.

Their parents, our father and mother.

When will we evolve

And learn how to solve

Our complications with discussions

Instead of hurling percussion grenades?

Our eyes need to open

To the much bigger problems 

Confronting all of us

For our continued existence.

Stranger in the Mirror

I wore my beard proudly

When I was in the Navy

So many years ago

In my Navy Dress Blues.

‘Tis a shock to look and see

A new reflection,

A derailed deflection,

A possible rejection,

Of the me I saw

Just moments ago,

Staring into the mirror

At a face so familiar

Before the arrival,

To end the survival,

To kill an abundance of curls and swirls,

To massacre ten years of grooming,

By using a blade for brooming

Away the accustomed, habituated,

Acclimated, well adjusted,

Ordinary of my face.

To whack away,

Shave away,

Banish ten years of bearded

Facial familiarity.

‘Tis a shock to look and see

A stranger staring back at me

In the mirror wondering

How could it be

That I don’t recognize the being

Reflecting the image before me?

Who is it that wonders,

Ponders, and conjures

Questions, interrogations,

Examinations and asks,

Who am I

Now, today?

Who is different from yesterday,

And just a few moments ago?

Isn’t that how life is anyway

We throw away

The we we were

Each and every night

Only to recreate, replicate

A clone

Who won’t make us feel alone

Like we know all too well

We have always been.

Or have we

Just been

Searching for that other?

Returning to our mothers

Or our fathers

Or our former shipmates

Who won’t make us wonder

If we really are all alone.

Smokestack

I was broken, like a pony,

My wildness tamed before it had a chance

To dance naked in the sprinkler.

Behave! What will people think?

Don't embarrass the family.

They'll arrest you and let your white friends go.

Don't be a pendejo. Cuidado!

War raged in Asia.

My uncle and cousin fought in Viet Nam

My cousin came home

In a body bag.

Communists were taking over the world.

I had my duty to keep America safe

From Communists.

Why didn't they teach us communism in school?

They taught us the weaknesses and

Strengths of our opponent's football teams.

My wildness perked its head out of my parent's corral

When I joined the Navy.

I was proud to serve my country.

Until, until, until,

Body parts flying, bombs blasting, and guns killing,

Twisted my hidden wildness so tight

It shattered.

It spewed in screams

All over the deck,

All around the ship's center smokestack.

Every evening, we pulled away from the task of killing

To replenish our depleting supply of death,

Of screeching, piercing, 75 pound bombs.

When the ship's belly was full,

I exploded in a full run to nowhere,

Around and around the smokestack,

Screaming my sanity back.

Screaming out my horror,

Frantically wanting to scream

The broken, bloody bodies back to life.

Desperately wanting to scream

My own body back

Home to sanity.

She stood on the shore

In her shimmering green ao dai

And pointed straw hat, holding out her hand.

Come back, 1972 is only a memory.

Come with me into the ocean, into the jungle

Of your mild, wildness.

I stared at the shore as I fell on my knees.

Exhausted, I leaned against the smoke stack,

Catching my breath,

Inhaling diesel and death,

Mixed with salt air.

“Did you see that guy

Screaming around the smokestack?

He's wild and crazy!” the new ensign yelled,

Pointing his own shaking finger at me.

The lieutenant shook his head,

“He's the only sane person

On this ship.”

Viet Nam Sunrise Visitation

That is our bed, see the keys?

He places two sets,

One by each pillow on his orange fitted sheet.

And then points to the door.

I walk down the hall,

Down a few steps,

And step back up as the water rushes in,

Up to my ankles.

Alarms are blasting from the ship's speakers!

I run to the repair locker.

It's locked!

I reach into my pocket for the keys,

But only feel the smoothness of my own skin.

A hand grabs my shoulder in the dark.

An Irish Mist voice whispers,

"Don'tcha fall on the slippery deck.

The sea fairies be waving to us, See?"

I look over the side;

They laugh and giggle,

As they glide and slide on the ship's wake,

Glowing their phosphorescent greenish blues.

I jump when octopus wraps

His tentacles around my stomach.

He turns me and she is there,

Wearing only her pointed straw hat.

Her nipples are dark on her small breast.

She takes my hand and leads me into the water. The blue damsel fish are all around us,

Sliding against our flesh.

Ship's alarm whispers in the distance.

She pulls me close and places her soft lips onto mine.

The blue damsels shimmer in my eyes.

The alarm buzzes. The damsels evaporate.

The sun shines on my face.

She rolls over, kisses my lips.

"Good morning, Sweetheart

What do you want for breakfast?"

Green Bloody Pants

Tonkin Gulf, Viet Nam 1972
Three black haired teenage boys running

As if they were dancing a box across the sand.

Boom! and Screams! and a Puff of smoke.

One boy in green pants 
Jumps up and runs alone.

Boom! No scream, just a Puff of sand

And a lump of green bloody pants.
STOP! I scream
To no avail.

Tonight 
I feel her soft hair dance against my face

As she wipes my tears with her finger,

“You are not a warring sailor anymore.

You are the peace maker. Remember.

They called you a peacenick."

So, be at peace, now.

Step out, one foot at a time.

Move to the music in your heart.

Dance peace back into your life.

Thanksgiving Day 1973

Sailing in the Gulf of Tonkin

On Thanksgiving 1973

Is not where we wanted to be.
Northward we had been escaping,
On our way to Yokohama,
On our way, far away
From the war,
From Viet Nam.

We mistakenly thought 

We were homeward bound,

Sailing first,

For a little R &R

Before sailing east,
So that we could feast

At the Thanksgiving table,

To be with our wives,
Our kids, and our friends
Who were able 

To celebrate our being home.
But 0rders came
Telling us to turn around.
We were no longer 

Homeward bound.
Back to the Gulf of Tonkin,
Back to the fight 

That turned off the light

That held our hope.

Now we,

War-weary sailors,

Were once again,

Returning, 

Forever returning,

To War-torn Viet Nam.

On that Thanksgiving day

We ate in shifts

As the Truxtun sailed

Up and down

The Gulf of Tonkin

On Thanksgiving 1973.

Vietnamese Fishermen

This reminds me of my time aboard the USS Trippe in Viet Nam in 1972. Fishermen had to feed their families, even if the war was exploding all around them.
And yet, there were some nights when it was quiet for a while, beautiful for a while, and the fishermen floated on the sea between the land and me, standing watch on my warship.
Excerpt for Viet Nam Body Count, Chapter 12:
I had been thinking
about the My Lai massacre when an old, weathered and wrinkled Vietnamese
fisherman attempted to bring his wooden boat alongside of the U.S.S. Trippe as
we patrolled back and forth about a hundred yards from the shore. Standing in
the hot midday sun, on the edge of his rickety boat, the fisherman pulled back
his pointed straw hat and yelled up to those of us on the main deck. We
couldn’t understand what he we saying.
“Stay back! Get
away from our ship!” someone yelled from the Helo deck, above me.
Unfazed, the old
man continued getting closer.
“What the hell does
that gook think he’s doing?” One of the gunners mates asked as he ran to the
machine gun on the Helo deck. “That fuckin Charlie better not be hiding a mine
under his boat.”
I put my hand on my
pistol. Sweat ran down my back. The old man put both his hands up, asking for
something, in Vietnamese. I stared at the boney, bare chested fisherman,
wearing what looked like pajama bottoms. A team of butterflies began taking up
residence in my belly. I pulled my pistol an inch out of it holster, hoping
that he didn’t have a mine or bomb hidden in his little old wooden boat.
Otis donned his
flack jacket and took his position, manning the M60 machine gun on the bow. It
was mounted on a tripod at the edge of the deck with an unobstructed view of
the rickety wooden boat. Otis’s hands were sweating. I could see them clearly.
His palms glimmered with droplets. They were in contrast to his eyes that were
frozen. His grip on the M60 machine gun was so tight it was making me sweat
even more.
Barry was summonedover the intercom as the ship slowed to a stop. He
knew how to speak a little Vietnamese, ... My book can be purchased at Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/Viet-Body-Count-Mushroom-Montoya