Caught within the confines of camp,
the dried mud I crunch beneath my boots.
I impose imprisonment upon myself.
December in Afghanistan: I am surrounded
by T-Walls and hescos, surrounded by mountains.
Slow drops of rain, from gray blanket clouds,
dot the dry dust with leopard spots;
then more rain and freezing temperature.
Soldiers with black arms strapped against their
backs, pass me by.
I find a secluded place with cold wind
against my face, and the cold wet earth
invades my soul.
For Prompt #106 at Read Write Poem.
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Holidays contain so many more memories and feelings than the vaunted Hallmark moments. Thanks for sharing, Henry.
ReplyDeletenice one....and happy holidays
ReplyDeleteThe simplicity of this poem is aligned very well to the singular sense of place and scene and "secluded" feeling expressed. Well written and a good response to the prompt.
ReplyDeleteAnd welcome to RWP. Hope we see more from you.
Wonderful! There is much to feel here - and to carry forward.
ReplyDeleteYour poem really brings forth the cold sorrow of war. Very nicely done.
ReplyDeleteI like the economical and spare approach this takes in tackling a tough subject, one that tends to be over dramatized, which this poem nicely avoids. The speaker's toughness and vulnerability are both well described and coexist with balance and emotion.
ReplyDeleteThis has a wonderful sound and begs to be read aloud.
ReplyDelete