The Wall

Occasion: I wrote this poem after returning from a trip to Washington DC with my dad in the summer of 1985. We visited the Viet Nam Memorial and it impressed me. I had to write.

The air is cold,
The dawn breaks bold,
A mist is on my breath.
I stand and stare,
In cold despair,
Upon this wall called death.

On slabs of black,
Like clouds of flak,
I read the names in grey.
They tell of wars,
On foreign shores,
And horrors of the day.

I hear the screams,
I see the streams,
Of life-blood in the dew.
I hear the cries,
And blood drenched sighs,
A soldier’s life is through.

Through fields of grain,
In pouring rain,
There's something very wrong.
His buddy's dead,
Just half a head,
He hates the Viet Cong.

Eighteen he'll be,
The first of three,
His parent’s oldest son.
With head held high,
He'll try and try,
But still they'll take Saigon.

He tries to fight,
All through the night,
But then he takes his fall.
The years went fast,
He's home at last,
His name is on the wall.

The air is cold,
The dawn breaks bold,
A mist is on my breath.
I stand and stare,
In cold despair,Upon this wall called death.