A Poem by G. R. Webster - 68th Pilot
SYNTHETIC
DEATH
Over
windless fields
stink
filled clouds of earlier peace
rise
unseen.
Under
the hot, glaring, cloudless sky
in
the sprawling dry-wet waste of long abandoned fields,
slumped
over with weapons and rations,
resembling
their fathers
in
earlier times
in
other wars
in
other places
the
young, green, government issued soldiers
swagger.
Their
uncluttered minds
distracted
by self whispered thoughts
direct
constantly shifting wild eyed glances.
Their
baggy, camouflaged outlines,
buffering
their nervous random movements,
advance
toward the distant, unknown
unseen
objective.
Across
the openness
hidden
in a village of forgotten dwellings
and
devastated memories
three
small, lean, black clad men lie quietly
deep
and alone,
clustered,
alter-like, over
a
well used mortar tube.
Their
six polished marble eyes
follow
the slow splashing progress of the approaching enemy
toward
an invisible registration point
and
the next battle.
With
quick smooth movements
they
slide round after round into the tube
as
a pop-whoosh sounds breaks the total calm
sending
barely visible objects on a long arching trajectory
to
its ignorant target
then
flatten themselves to the ground
Abruptly,
black-orange vapor balls crack the silence
exploding
outward, flashing brightly, and disappearing
leaving
a bursting mist of man made rain to shower softly
over
groups of jerking, bewildered, limbless men,
their
young, inquisitive, searching minds,
flash
frozen forever in permanent shock.
Their
sinking bodies spread great, black-red blood pools
erasing
life in widening rings.
In
the distance, an awkward, spinning, screaming helicopter
approaches,
flares steeply and comes to a nervous hover,
touch-testing
its aluminum skids in the red-rippled waters.
Embilically
linked plastic masked shapes,
lean
out, frantically
but
with senseless urgency
searching
among the now lifeless, green, polyester bundles
disappearing
hesitatingly from the surface.
Unexpectedly,
steady ribbons of hot accelerated metal
burp
from the old village
attracted
to the machines’ bright red cross
highlighted
brilliantly inside clean white squares
as
pop pings sound randomly
along
the hollow, olive drab fuselage sides.
The
helicopter, passively accepting
the
insult of the dry rape for one long moment,
suddenly
is seized epileptically in a violent,
multi-directional,
high frequency convulsion
and
explodes.
Oddly
shaped metal parts spin erratically
slapping
the water
beating
themselves to death.
Slowly
from the tangled, bubbling, metal mass
puddles
of flames spread
and
hiss-splashes of molten metal alloys
quench
in the water
punctuating
senseless death.
Faint
threads of smoke rise softly
twisting
into
long, black, carbon vapor spirals
silently
proclaiming the horror of war
A Poem by
G. R. Webster
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