I rise slowly, shaking my head to bring thought and dislodge the dirt and leaves from my hair. First I make it to one knee, then rise to my full six feet. I hear an odd ringing in my ears and feel a general weakness all over. The sticky cobwebs slowly lift from my brain as I glance down and see blood running down my arm and still more seeping from beneath my right pants leg. There is a jagged tear in my trousers.
As my vision clears, I look out over a smoldering patch of jungle wasteland. Where once bushes grew and flowers swayed in the breeze there is now splintered tree stumps and burning soil. The odors which reach my nostrils are a mixture of once green foliage, cordite and the sweet, sickening smell of burning flesh.
My God. There's an arm near that ditch, and the better part of a leg not twenty feet to my front. As I stare in horror, more bodies and body parts emerge from the smoke that rises from the ground.
What has happened? I am yet unable to remember. As I try to step forward I stumble and once again land on my hands and knees. The M-16 rifle, I do not remember holding, drops to the ground.
The jolt causes my mind to clear. I peer down into a stagnant,
blood streaked pool and see the face of Death, and it is me.
Copyright © June 1994 I. S. Parrish
(This item was submitted as an English II short story while I was in College, 1994)
What is it that killing does to a man?
Does it destroy his soul or merely chew away at the edges like a hungry rat?
Does it deaden his senses or cause them to come alive like a rocket?
Does it cause him anguish or fuel the evil that hides in the recesses of his mind?
Does it take away his self-respect or strengthen his macho mannerisms?
Does it cloud his judgement or cause him to see beyond reality and into truth?
Does it make him an animal or just another creature sucking on survival?
What is it that killing does to a man?
(This poem was published in "In the Desert Sun" an annual book of poetry published by The National Library of Poetry, 1994)
After you have tasted fear and dread, then there is love.
After you have drunk the blood of nature, then comes compassion.
After you have separated another human being from life, then you can receive religion.
After you have lost all self-respect and ego, then you will obtain enlightenment.
After you experience unearthly and catastrophic noise, then you will know silence.
After you have seen your best friend mangled, then you will know pain.
After you receive numerous unwanted projectiles in your body, then you may know death.
Copyright © 1993 I. S. Parrish
The first time I met him he had life in his eyes and fun in his heart.
When next we met, some weeks later, the eyes had begun to dull and he laughed much less than before.
The third time we spoke, a few months later, there was evil in his eyes and anger in his voice.
The next to last time we met he wept for himself and those he had killed.
The last time I saw him he stared from lifeless eyes as the body bag enveloped him.
From first to last, one of God's own children, known for a lifetime while serving in Vietnam, 1966-67.
Copyright © 1994 I. S. Parrish
Submitted to Poetry.com 9-4-02
Can I forget the screaming jets and low-flying choppers?
The smell of rotting jungle and stagnant water.
The sight of napalm exploding through and devastating a once beautiful countryside.
The bondbon beer and ice with cola caps inside.
The strangling rain storms and heat that burned the skin from my bones.
Can I forget the steady "thump" of VC mortars and starlight flares lighting up the night sky?
The reality of carrying my own bodybag in my backpack.
The bloody brown t-shirts and torn, twisted young bodies.
I might forget my own name, I will never forget Vietnam.
We were the forgotten patriots, yet only death will allow us to forget.
(This poem was published in the Annual National Library of Poetry book, 1995)
I went to war....
The webs of the mind trap the memories of another time with silken threads.
I saw the death....
The piercing eyes of mystery lurk there and peer out from under the heavy blackness.
I felt the fear....
There is beauty there, as well as evil and both come swaggering back when happiness slips.
I smelled the death....
I can smell with these memories, smells that remind me of things long past.
I met the devil....
All of a sudden, a dark mass emerges from those recesses and tries to un-grasp the edges that keep me sane.
I heard the horror....
Flashes and bursts explode in the darkness and try to pull me deeper into that gaping hole.
I sensed the terror....
Raw fingers of imaginary hands can barely hold the rocky edge of reality.
I returned home alive, only mentally damaged....
When I am dead the THING will collapse and hopefully invade no
other. Alas...freedom.
Copyright © November 1995 I. S. Parrish
Submitted to the "Live Poet Society" April 1996