Black Prism

Holding idyllic Kodak photographs of my
middle class Long Island family,
my mother's golden beehive elegantly
arranged on her head.
In the mournful 1960's,
so many black and white newspaper
photos and newsreels of the Vietnam War.

Humid jungles, rice paddies,
youthful U.S. soldiers,
Charlie was an elusive enemy
of the shadows in nightmares.
Many American troops only teenagers,
their souls bled with exhaustion.

My mother and I embraced weeping
in the loss of the ones who returned
fallen,
for MIA, POW,
and for others broken in body
and spirit.
How can we celebrate our birthdays
when they lost their's.

Night's lorn dispersed in a
black prism of grief's remembrance.
Father of Light,
they became Your's
and I will not forget -
war is a storming
wanton wretch of a bastard.