Beating the Bush
I made it home from the war,
it’s been so many years,
I remember the good, the bad and yes, even the
fears.
Fears are many when fighting for your life,
They’re always with you, like your weapon and
knife.
Dog tags are taped, all gear tied down,
You tried like hell not to make a sound.
Heat so unbearable, sweat poured down your
face,
The jungle wasn’t hell but it was just as hot
a place.
I remember my friends, too young to drink, too
young to die,
Deep down inside I asked myself why.
You busted your ass during the monsoons,
humping in the mud,
Keeping the bug juice ready for the leeches
filled with blood.
From the Rock Apes in the mountains, the F.Y. lizards on the ground,
Wild Orchids in the Ashu,
no stranger mix of beauty to be found.
The guys I served with, became more like my
brothers,
My only hope was that when it counted, I’d be
as good as the others.
Many times out of water, we carried empty
canteens,
There is no sweeter taste than from a cold
mountain stream.
I thought my war was over when I made it home.
As I dwell into my memories, I can’t help but
feel alone.
Michael D. Monfrooe
Dedicated to Carlos “Cuba” Mederos
Best Among the Best